Tuesday Tell All: Christmas Stories

It was 1998 and my mom was serving as the young women's president in her ward. She had been hard at work completeing her service projects to earn her Young Womanhood Award.

She had always had a love of Christmas stories and decided this would be the perfect opportunity to make her very own collection of ones she loved most. She was determined find various articles, type them up and bind them into a book.

This project soon took a life of its own. She read through endless tales on the internet, flipped through book after book and searched for ones she had once heard. She typed and typed and typed and then spent endless hours spell checking each word.

She complied poems, facts about about Hymns, tales from wars, everyday narratives and a few old Christmas yarns. I spent hours reading her material and shed a few tears from the touching accounts I found on the page. I found a spirit of love and peace as I read each piece.

As Dr. Suess so eloquent wrote I too found the true meaning of the season:

"And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

She presented a spiral bound book filled with precious Christmas stories to each young women and made binders for each of her children. It was titled: Wise Men Still Seek Him. What a priceless gift- one of sacrafice, time and love. I read the stories each year during Christmastime and am reminded not only of the beautiful tales, but of my love for my mother.

Here are just a few of my favorites.

The Christmas Truce

On Christmas Eve in the trenches in Flanders fields in 1914, suddenly in the still of the freezing night a young German voice began singing, "Stille Nacht-Silent Night". Soon, one by one, each German voice, joined in harmony. As soon as they finished there was a reverent pause. Then from across the trenches a young English soldier sang out loud and clear "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" and the other English soldiers sang in harmony. Then both sides sang "Silent Night" together in two different languages. After a considerable pause the lone figure of a lone German walked out between the trenches into No Man's Land. Then the soldiers on both sides slowly walked out to join him. They shook hands, hugged and traded chocolates, cigarettes, photographs, scotch and cognac. The Christmas carols resounded throughout the frozen fields of Flanders. Soon daylight was upon them and with sad farewells they returned to the trenches to continue fighting. A sad but true story.

The Gift of the Magi

From the story by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby couch and howl. So Della did it.

When Della finished her cry, she attended to her cheeks with a powder puff. She stood by the window and looked out dully. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling–something just a bit near to being worthy of being owned by Jim.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the looking glass. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall its full length. Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Young's in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold pocket watch that had been his father's and grandfather's. The other was Della's hair.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell bout her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. She did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn carpet. On went her old brown jacket: on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme Sofronie. Hair goods of all kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. "Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight of it." Down rippled the brown cascade. "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, the next two hours were rosy as she ransacked the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum watch-chain, simple in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by ornamentation–as all good things should do. It was even worthy of the Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew it much be Jim's. Quietness and value–the description applied to both.

Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap he used in place of the chain.

When Della reached home, she got out her curling irons and went to work. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a school-boy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me–but what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"

Jim was never late. Della held the watch chain in her hand. She heard his step on the stair and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two–and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim's eyes were fixed on Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her.

"Jim darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again–you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim and let's be happy. You don't know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, as if he had not arrived at that fact yet.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without any hair, aren't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously. "You say your hair is gone?"

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold and gone, I tell you. Be good to me, for it went for you." Out of his trance Jim seemed to wake. He enfolded his Della in his arms. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't thing there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going awhile at first."

White fingers tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to tears and wails, necessitating all of Jim's comforting powers.

For there lay the Combs–the set of combs that Della had wanted for so long. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell with jeweled rims–just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had yearned for them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers–but the hair was gone.

She hugged them to her, and at length was able to look up with a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!" And then Della leaped and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her own bright spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to seen how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. "Dell," he said. "Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep em awhile. They're too nice to use just now. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now, suppose you put dinner on."

Eight dollars a week or a million a year–What is the difference?

The Magi, you know, were wise men–who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the Magi.

Teddy

Jean Thompson stood in front of her fifth-grade class on the very first day of school in the fall and told the children a lie. Like most teachers she looked at her pupils and said that she loved each of them the same, that she would treat them all alike. And that was impossible, because there in front of her, slumped in his seat on the third row was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed he didn't play well with the other children, that his clothes were unkempt, and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy was unpleasant. It got to the point during the first few months that she would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then highlighting the "F" at the top of the paper biggest of all.

Because Teddy was a sullen little boy, no one else seemed to enjoy him either. At school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's records and delayed Teddy's until last. When she opened his file, she found a surprise.

His first-grade teacher had written, "Teddy is a bright, inquisitive child with a ready laugh. He does good work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be around."

His second-grade teacher had penned, "Teddy is an excellent student, well-liked by all his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."

His third-grade teacher had noted, "Teddy continues to work hard but his mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth-grade teacher had commented, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and often falls asleep in class. He is tardy and could become a more serious problem."

By now Mrs. Thompson realized the extent of the problem, but Christmas was coming fast. It was all she could do, with the school play and all, until the day before the holidays began and she was suddenly forced to focus again on Teddy Stoddard.

Her children brought her presents, all in beautiful ribbon and bright paper, except Teddy's, which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy brown paper of a scissored grocery bag.
Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents.

Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of cologne. She stifled the children's laughter while she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume behind the other wrist.

Teddy Stoddard stayed behind after class just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my mom used to."

After the children left, she cried for at least an hour. On that very day she quit teaching reading, and writing, and speaking. Instead, she began to teach children.

Jean Thompson paid particular attention to one they all called Teddy. As she worked with him his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. On those days when there would be an important test, Mrs. Thompson would remember that cologne. By the end of the year he had become one of the highest achieving children in the class and, well, he had also somewhat become the "pet"of that teacher who had once vowed to love all her children exactly the same.

A year later she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that of all the teachers he'd had in elementary school, she was his favorite.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still his favorite teacher of all time.

Four years after that, she got another letter saying that while things had been tough at times he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson she was still his favorite teacher.

Four years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still his favorite teacher but that now his name was a little longer. The letter was signed Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.

The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he'd met this girl and was to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the pew usually reserved for the mother of the groom.

And on that day she wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And on that special day, Jean Thompson smelled just like the way Teddy remembered his mother smelling on their last Christmas together.

The Christmas Orange

Fred C LeMon 1920-1973

However impossible and elusive the Christmas message may seem some years, I always take great comfort in the story of the little orphan boy, Jake.

Jake was the resident of an orphan's home, one of ten children supported by what contributions the home could secure on a continuous struggle. There was very little to eat. It was seldom very warm in the wintertime, for fuel was expensive. But at Christmas time there always seemed to be a little more to eat and the home seemed a little warmer and it was time for more than the usual enjoyment. But more than this, there was the orange. At Christmas each child received an orange. It was the only time of the year that such a rare item was provided and it was coveted by each child like no other thing they ever possessed. They could save it for several days, admiring it, feeling it, loving it, and contemplating the moment when they would eat it. Truly it was the "piece de resistance" to the Christmastide–and the year–for many would wait until New Year's Day or later to eat it. Oftentimes it would start to dry out before they would eat it, wanting to save and treasure it as long as they could.

This Christmas Day Jake had offended the rules or authority of the home in some manner, and his punishment was loss of the orange privilege. After a year of waiting for this rare occasion, and this most desired of all rewards, it was denied. Plaintive pleading was to no avail. Although the offense was rather minor, it was an infraction of such rules that must govern in regulated society. Jake spent Christmas Day empty and alone. It even seemed the other children didn't want to associate with a person who didn't have an orange.

Nighttime arrived and this was the worst of all. Jake could not sleep. There was no love in the world; there was no forgiving; and certainly it wasn't right for a little child to suffer so much. Silently he sobbed for the future of mankind, and the world perhaps, and because he didn't have an orange like the other kids had.

A soft hand placed on Jake's shoulder startled him momentarily, and an object was quickly thrust into his hands. The donor disappeared into the dark of the room, leaving Jake with what he did not immediately identify as an orange. It was not a regular run-of-the-mill orange, but one fabricated from segments of nine other oranges–nine other highly prized oranges that would of necessity be eaten this day instead of several days hence.

Jake's heart ceased to ache; indeed, warmth replaced the pain. Love will work miracles in all circumstances.

Merry Christmas!