 | |
Holidays
| Key
Word - Topic |
Story
|
| |
New Year's Day |
| New Year's Day |
04/12/01
THE
MONTH AFTER CHRISTMAS
'Twas the
month after Christmas, and all through the house
Nothing
would fit me, not even a blouse.
The
cookies I'd nibbled, the eggnog I'd taste
All the
holiday parties had gone to my waist!
When I got
on the scales there arose such a number!
When I
walked to the store (less a walk than a lumber.)
I'd
remember the marvelous meals I'd prepared;
The
gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,
The wine
and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese
And the
way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."
As I
dressed myself in my husband's old shirt
And
prepared once again to do battle with dirt--
I said to
myself, as I only can
"You
can't spend a winter disguised as a man!"
So, away
with the last of the sour cream dip,
Get rid of
the fruit cake, every cracker and chip.
Every last
bit of food that I like must be banished
'Till all
the additional ounces have vanished.
I won't
have a cookie, not even a lick.
I'll want
only to chew on a long celery stick.
I won't
have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie,
I'll munch
on a carrot and quietly cry.
I'm
hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore---
But isn't
that what January is for?
Unable to
giggle, no longer a riot.
Happy New
Year to all and to all a good diet! |
Valentines Day |
|
|
Easter |
EASTER HUMOR
|
A group
of four year olds were gathered in a Sunday school class in Chattanooga. The teacher
looked at the class and asked this question: "Does anyone know what today is?"
A little four-year-old girl held up her hand and said," Yes, today is Palm
Sunday."
The teacher exclaimed, "That's fantastic, that's wonderful. Now does anyone know what
next Sunday is?" The same little girl held up her hand and said, "Yes, next
Sunday is Easter Sunday." Once again the teacher said, "That's fantastic.
Now, does anyone know what makes next Sunday Easter?" The same little girl responded
and said, "Yes, next Sunday is Easter because Jesus rose from the grave." Before
the teacher could congratulate her, she kept on talking and said, "but if he sees his
shadow -- he has to go back in for seven weeks."
|
|
EASTER HUMOR
|
Five
year old girl was asked by her mother what she learned in Sunday school. She told her mom
about the Easter story. She told of the death of Jesus and how he was buried in a tomb.
Later an angel came and looked in the tomb and asked Jesus what He wanted. “I want
out of this hole,” Jesus said.
|
| EASTER HUMOR |
Someone
said to Joseph of Arimathaea (the person who gave his tomb to Jesus) “That was such a
beautiful, costly, hand hewn tomb. Why did you give it to someone else to be interred
in?” “Oh, said Joseph, “He only needed it for the weekend.”
|
| EASTER HUMOR |
Ukrainian
folk tale
One day a poor peddler went to the market place to sell a basket of eggs. He came upon
a crowd mocking a man who staggered with a heavy cross on which he was about to be
crucified. The peddler ran to his aid, leaving the basket by the roadside. When he
returned, he found the eggs transformed in exquisite designs of bright colors. The man was
Jesus; the peddler, Simon. And the eggs were to become the symbol of rebirth for all
mankind.
|
| EASTER HUMOR |
On a Good Friday
morning, during a heavy action in World War II, a young American soldier was severely
wounded. He called for help and none came. He signaled to planes overhead, but never got
through. Finally, he dropped off into merciful unconsciousness. As his chaplain stood over
him that Easter morning, the young man said, "Chaplain, you can stand anything on
Good Friday when you are certain of Easter." |
|
EASTER HUMOR
|
12/05/00
THE EMPTY EGG....
Jeremy was born with a twisted body
and a slow mind. At the age of 12 he was still in second grade, seemingly
unable to learn. His teacher, Doris Miller, often became exasperated with
him. He would squirm in his seat, drool, and make grunting noises. At
other times, he spoke clearly and distinctly, as if a spot of light had
penetrated the darkness of his brain.
Most of the time, however,
Jeremy just irritated his teacher. One day she called his parents and
asked them to come in for a consultation. As the Forrester's entered the
empty classroom, Doris said to them, "Jeremy really belongs in a
special school. It isn't fair to him to be with younger children who don't
have learning problems. Why, there is a five year gap between his age and
that of the other students." Mrs. Forrester cried softly into a
tissue, while her husband spoke. "Miss Miller," he said,
"there is no school of that kind nearby. It would be a terrible shock
for Jeremy if we had to take him out of this school. We know he really
likes it here."
Doris sat for a long time
after they had left, staring at the snow outside the window. Its coldness
seemed to seep into her soul. She wanted to sympathize with the Forresters.
After all, their only child had a terminal illness. But it wasn't fair to
keep him in her class. She had 18 other youngsters to teach, and Jeremy
was a distraction. Furthermore, he would never learn to read and write.
Why waste any more time trying?
As she pondered the situation,
guilt washed over her. Here I am complaining when my problems are nothing
compared to that poor family, she thought. Lord, please help me to be more
patient with Jeremy. From that day on, she tried hard to ignore Jeremy's
noises and his blank stares.
Then one day, he limped to her
desk, dragging his bad leg behind him. "I love you, Miss
Miller," he exclaimed, loud enough for the whole class to hear. The
other students snickered, and Doris' face turned red. She stammered,
"Wh-why that's very nice, Jeremy. N-now please take your seat."
Spring came, and the children talked excitedly about the coming of Easter.
Doris told them the story of Jesus, and then to emphasize the idea of new
life springing forth, she gave each of the children a large plastic egg.
"Now," she said to them, "I want you
to take this home and bring it back tomorrow with something inside that
shows new life. Do you understand?" "Yes, Miss Miller," the
children responded enthusiastically all except for Jeremy. He listened
intently; his eyes never left her face. He did not even make his usual
noises. Had he understood what she had said about Jesus' death and
resurrection? Did he understand the assignment? Perhaps she should call
his parents and explain the project to them. That evening, Doris' kitchen
sink stopped up. She called the landlord and waited an hour for him to
come by and unclog it. After that, she still had to shop for groceries,
iron a blouse, and prepare a vocabulary test for the next day. She
completely forgot about phoning Jeremy's parents.
The next morning, 19 children
came to school, laughing and talking as they placed their eggs in the
large wicker basket on Miss Miller's desk. After they completed their math
lesson, it was time to open the eggs. In the first egg, Doris found a
flower. "Oh yes, a flower is certainly a sign of new life," she
said. "When plants peek through the ground, we know that spring is
here." A small girl in the first row waved her arm. "That's my
egg, Miss Miller," she called out. The next egg contained a plastic
butterfly, which looked very real. Doris held it up. "We all know
that a caterpillar changes and grows into a beautiful butterfly. Yes,
that's new life, too." Little Judy smiled proudly and said,
"Miss Miller, that one is mine." Next, Doris found a rock with
moss on it. She explained that moss, too, showed life. Billy spoke up from
the back of the classroom, "My daddy helped me," he beamed.
Then Doris opened the fourth
egg. She gasped. The egg was empty. Surely it must be Jeremy's she
thought, and of course, he did not understand her instructions. If only
she had not forgotten to phone his parents. Because she did not want to
embarrass him, she quietly set the egg aside and reached for another.
Suddenly, Jeremy spoke up. "Miss Miller, aren't you going to talk
about my egg?" Flustered, Doris replied, "But Jeremy, your egg
is empty." He looked into her eyes and said softly, "Yes, but
Jesus' tomb was empty, too."
Time stopped. When she could
speak again, Doris asked him, "Do you know why the tomb was
empty?" "Oh, yes," Jeremy said, "Jesus was killed and
put in there. Then His Father raised Him up."
The recess bell rang. While the
children excitedly ran out to the schoolyard, Doris cried. The cold inside
her melted completely away. Three months later, Jeremy died. Those who
paid their respects at the mortuary were surprised to see 19 eggs on top
of his casket, all of them empty. |
| EASTER HUMOR |
06/24/01
All I need to know about life I learned from the Easter
Bunny ...
- Don't put all your
eggs in one basket
- Walk softly and
carry a big carrot.
- Everyone needs a
friend who is all ears.
- There's no such
thing as too much candy.
- All work and no play
can make you a basket case.
- A cute little tail
attracts a lot of attention.
- Everyone is entitled
to a bad hare day.
- Let happy thoughts
multiply like rabbits.
- Some body parts
should be floppy.
- Keep your paws off
other people's jellybeans.
- Good things come in
small sugar coated packages.
- The grass is always
greener in someone else's basket.
- An Easter bonnet can
tame even the wildest hare.
- To show your true
colors you have to come out of your shell.
- The best things in
life are still sweet and gooey.
|
Mother's Day |
| Mother's Day |
The
Images of a Mother:
4 YEARS OF AGE My Mommy can do anything!
8 YEARS OF AGE My Mom knows a lot! A whole lot!
12 YEARS OF AGE My Mother doesn't really know quite everything.
14 YEARS OF AGE Naturally, Mother doesn't know that, either.
16 YEARS OF AGE Mother? She's hopelessly old-fashioned.
18 YEARS OF AGE That old woman? She's way out of date!
25 YEARS OF AGE Well, she might know a little bit about it.
35 YEARS OF AGE Before we decide, let's get Mom's opinion.
45 YEARS OF AGE Wonder what Mom would have thought about it?
65 YEARS OF AGE Wish I could talk it over with Mom From Barbara Clevenger,
Church of Today West, MI |
|
Mother's Day
|
How
Moms Were Made
By the time the Lord made mothers, he was into the sixth day working
overtime. An Angel appeared and said "Why are you spending so much time
on this one?" And the Lord answered and said, "Have you read the spec
sheet on her? She has to be completely washable, but not plastic; have 200 movable
parts,
all replaceable; run on black coffee and leftovers; have a lap that can
hold three children at one time and disappears when she stands up; have a
kiss that can cure anything from a scraped knee to a broken heart; and
have six pairs of hands."
The Angel was astounded at the requirements for this one. "Six pairs of
hands! No Way!" said the Angel. The Lord replied, "Oh, it's not the
hands that are the problem. It's the three pairs of eyes that mothers
must have!" "And that's on the standard model?" the
Angel asked. The
Lord nodded in agreement, "Yep, one pair of eyes are to see through the
closed door as she asks her children what they are doing even though she
already knows. Another pair in the back of her head are to see what she
needs to know even though no one thinks she can. And the third pair are
here in the front of her head. They are for looking at an errant child
and saying that she understands and loves him or her without even
saying a single word."
The Angel tried to stop the Lord. "This is too much work for one day.
Wait until tomorrow to finish." "But I can't!" the Lord protested,
"I am
so close to finishing this creation that is so close to my own heart.
She already heals herself when she is sick AND can feed a family of six
on a pound of hamburger and can get a nine year old to stand in the
shower."
The Angel moved closer and touched the woman. "But you have made her so
soft, Lord." "She is soft," the Lord agreed, "but I have also
made her
tough. You have no idea what she can endure or accomplish." "Will she be
able to think?" asked the Angel. The Lord replied, "Not only will
she
be able to think, she will be able to reason, and negotiate." The Angel then
noticed something and reached out and touched the woman's cheek. "Oops,
it looks like you have a leak with this model. I told you that you were
trying to put too much into this one." "That's not a leak," the Lord
objected. "That's a tear!"
"What's the tear for?" the Angel asked. The Lord said, "The
tear is her
way of expressing her joy, her sorrow, her disappointment, her pain, her
loneliness, her grief, and her pride."
The Angel was impressed. "You are a genius, Lord. You thought of
everything for this one. You even created the tear!" The Lord looked at
the Angel and smiled and said, "I'm afraid you are wrong again, my
friend.
I created the woman, but she created the tear!" From Barbara
Clevenger, Church of Today West, MI |
| Mother's Day |
Why
Do Mothers Cry
"Why are you crying?" he asked his mom.
"Because I am a mother" she told him.
"I don't understand" he said.
His mom hugged him and said, "You never will"
Later, the little boy asked his father why mother cried for no reason.
"All mothers cry for no reason" was all his dad could say.
The little boy grew up and became a man
still wondering why mothers cry.
So he finally put in a call to God,
and when God got on the phone the man said,
"God, why do mothers cry so easily?"
God said,
"You see, son, when I made mothers, they had to be special.
I made their shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world,
yet gentle enough to give comfort.
I gave them an inner strength to endure childbirth
and the rejection that many times comes from their children.
I gave them a hardiness that allows them to keep going on when everyone
else gives up,
and to take care of their families
through sickness and fatigue without complaining.
I gave them the sensitivity to love their children
under all circumstances,
even when their child has hurt them very badly.
This same sensitivity helps them to make a child's boo-boo feel better,
and helps them share a teenager's anxieties and fears.
I gave them a tear to shed,
It's theirs exclusively to use whenever it is needed.
It is their only weakness.
It is a tear for mankind."
From Barbara Clevenger, Church of Today West, MI
|
|
Mother's Day
|
If they wrote a help wanted ad for
the job of parenting, who would have the guts to apply?
Job Description
Long term team players needed for challenging, permanent work in and often chaotic
environment. Candidates
must possess excellent communication and organization skills and be willing to work
variable hours, which include evenings, weekends, and frequent 24 hour shifts on call.
Some overnight traveling required including camping trips to primitive sites on rainy
weekends and endless sports tournaments in faraway cities. Travel expenses not
reimbursed. Extensive courier duties also
required.
Responsibilities:
:Must prove on-the-site training in basic life skills, such as nose blowing.
:Must have strong skills in negotiating conflict resolution and crisis management.
:Ability to suture flesh wounds a plus.
:Must to think out of the box but not lose track of the box because you will most likely
need it for a school project.
: Must reconcile petty cash disbursements and be proficient in managing budgets and
resources fairly, unless you want to hear, "He got more than me!" for the
rest of your life.
: Also, must be able to drive a motor vehicle safely under loud and adverse conditions
while simultaneously practicing above-mentioned skills in conflict resolutions.
: Must be able to choose your battles and stick to your guns.
: Must be able to withstand criticism such as "You don't know anything."
: Must be willing to be hated at least temporally until someone needs $5.00 to go skating.
: Must be willing to bite your tongue repeatedly.
: Also, must possess the physical stamina of a pack mule and be able to go from zero to 60
mph in 3 seconds flat, in case this time the screams from the backyard are not someone
just calling wolf.
: Must be willing to face stimulating technical challenges, such as small gadget
repair, mysteriously sluggish toilets, and stuck zippers.
: Must screen phone calls, maintain calendars, and coordinate production of multiple
homework projects.
: Must have the ability to plan and organize social gatherings for clients of all ages
and mental outlooks.
: Must be willing to be indispensable one minute and an embarrassment the next.
: Must handle assembly and production safety testing of a half-million cheap, plastic toys
and battery operated devices.
: Also, must have a highly energetic, entrepreneurial spirit because fundraising
will be your middle name.
: Must have a diverse knowledge, so as to answer questions such as "What makes the
wind move?"
: Must always hope for the best but be prepared for the worst.
: Must assume final, complete accountability for the quality of the end product.
Responsibilities, also, include floor maintenance, and janitorial work throughout the
facility.
Possibility For Advancement and Promotions:
:Virtually none! Your job is to remain in the same position for years without complaining,
constantly retaining and updating your skills, so that those in your charge can ultimately
surpass you.
Previous
Experience:
None required, unfortunately.
On-the-job training offered at a continual,
exhausting basis.
Wages and Compensation:
You pay them, offering frequent raises and bonuses.
A balloon payment is due
when they turn 18 because of the assumption that
college will help them
become financially independent. When you die, you
give them whatever is left.
The oddest thing about this reverse-salary scheme is
that you actually enjoy it and wish you could do more.
Benefits:
While no health and dental benefits, no pension, no
tuition reimbursement, no paid holidays, and no stock options are offered,
limitless job supplies, opportunities for personal growth, and free hugs
are for life if you play your cards right..................
From Barbara |
| Mother's Day |
By the time the Lord made mothers, he was into his sixth day of working
overtime. An Angel appeared and said "Why are you spending so much time on this
one"? And the Lord answered and said, "Have you seen the spec sheet on
her?" She has to be completely washable, but not plastic, have 200 movable parts, all
replaceable, run on black coffee and leftovers, have a lap that can hold three children at
one time and that disappears when she stands up, have a kiss that can cure anything from a
scraped knee to a broken heart, and have six pairs of hands. The Angel was astounded at
the requirements for this one. "Six pairs of hands! No Way! said the
Angel." The Lord replied, "Oh, it's not the hands that are the
problem. It's the three pairs of eyes that mothers must have!"
"And that's just on the standard model?" The Angel asked. The Lord
nodded in agreement, "Yep, one pair of eyes are to see through the closed door as she
asks her children what they are doing even though she already knows. Another pair in
the back of her head, are to see what she needs to know even though no one thinks she can.
And the third pair are here in the front of her head. They are for looking at
an errant child and saying that she understands and loves him or her without even saying a
single word."
The Angel tried to stop the Lord. "This is too much work for one day.
Wait until tomorrow to finish." "But I can't! The Lord protested, I am so close
to finishing this creation that is so close to my own heart. She already heals herself
when she is sick AND can feed a family of six on a pound of hamburger and can get a nine
year old to stand in the shower."
The Angel moved closer and touched the woman, "But you have
made her so soft, Lord." "She is soft", the Lord agreed, "But I
have also made her tough. You have no idea what she can endure or accomplish."
"Will she be able to think?", asked the Angel. The Lord replied,
"Not only will she be able to think, she will be able to reason, and negotiate."
The Angel then noticed something and reached out and touched the
woman's cheek. "Oops, it looks like you have a leak with this model. Told you
that you were trying to put too much into this one." "That's not a leak."
The Lord objected. "That's a tear!" " What's the tear for?"
the Angel asked. The Lord said, "The tear is her way of expressing her
joy, her sorrow, her disappointment, her pain, her loneliness, her grief, and her
pride."
The Angel was impressed. "You are a genius, Lord.
You thought of everything for WOMEN are truly amazing."
|
| Mother's Day |
FOR ALL
THE MOMS I KNOW
We are sitting at lunch when my daughter casually mentions that she and
her husband are thinking of "starting a family." "We're taking a
survey,"
she says, half joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"
"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.
"I
know," she says,, "No more sleeping in on weekend, no more
spontaneous vacations..."
But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to
decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn
in a childbirth class. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of
childbearing will heal, but that becoming a mother will leave her with
an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable. I consider
warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking
"What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash, every house fire
will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will
wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.
I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that
no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to
the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent "MOM!"
will cause her to drop a soufflé or her best crystal with a moment's hesitation.
I feel I
should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested
in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She
might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important
business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell. She will
have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep from running home, just
to make sure her baby is all right.
I want my
daughter to know that everyday decisions will no longer be
routine. That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room
rather than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That right
there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues
of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect
that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.
However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself
constantly as a mother. Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to
assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will
never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important, will be less value to her once she has a child.
That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but she will also begin to
hope for more years - not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish
theirs.
I want her to know that a caesarian scar or shiny stretch marks will
become badges of honor. My daughter's relationship with her husband will
change, but not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand how much
more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never
hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know that she will fall in
love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.
I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women
throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice, and drunk driving. I
hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but become
temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to my child's future.
I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing
your child learn to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh
of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or a cat for the first time.
I want her to taste the joy that is so real, it actually hurts. My
daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes.
"You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reach across the
table, squeeze my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer for her, and for
me, and for all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of
callings. This blessed gift from God........that of
being a mother.
|
| Mother's Day |
8/30/00
MOTHERHOOD:
A few months ago, when I was picking up the children at school,
another mother I knew well rushed up to me. Emily was fuming with
indignation. "Do you know what you and I are?" she
demanded.
Before
I could answer (and I didn't really have one handy) she blurted out the
reason for her question. It seemed she had just returned from renewing her
driver's license at The County Clerk's office. Asked by the woman recorder
to
state her occupation, Emily had hesitated, uncertain how to class herself.
"What
I mean is," explained the
recorder, "do you have a job, or are you just a.....?""Of
course I have a job," snapped Emily. "I'm a mother."
"We don't list 'mother' as an
occupation...'housewife' covers it," said the recorder
emphatically.
I forgot all about her story until one day I
found myself in the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall. The
Clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient, and
possessed of a high-sounding title like "Town Registrar" or
"Official Interrogator"
"And
what is your occupation?" she probed.
What made me say it, I do not know. The words simply popped out. "I'm
a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human
Relations."
The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair, and looked up as
though she had not heard right. I repeated the title slowly,
emphasizing the most significant words. Then I stared with wonder as my
pompous pronouncement was
written in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.
"Might I ask," said the clerk with new
interest, "just what you do in your field?"
Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my
voice, I heard
myself reply, "I have a continuing program of research (what mother
doesn't) in the laboratory and in the field (normally I would have said
indoors and out). I'm working for my Masters (the whole darned family) and
already have four
credits (all daughters). Of course, the job is one of the most
demanding in the humanities (any mother care to disagree?) and I often
work 14 hours a day (24 is more like it). But the job is more challenging
than most run-of-the-mill
careers and the rewards are in satisfaction rather than
just
money."
There was an increasing note of respect in
the clerk's voice as she completed the form, stood up, and personally
ushered me to the door. As I drove
into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted
by my lab assistants - ages 13, 7, and 3. Upstairs I could hear our new
experimental model (6 months) in the child-development program, testing
out a new vocal pattern. I felt triumphant! I had scored a beat on
bureaucracy!
And I had gone on the official records as someone more
distinguished and indispensable to mankind than "just another mother.
"Motherhood...what a glorious career. Especially when there's a title
on the door.
Send this to another Mother you know. Whether a stay at home Mom or
a career Mom, we should all carry this title. |
Father's Day |
| Father's Day |
7/26/00
The
children begged for a hamster, and after the usual fervent vows that they
alone would care for it, they got one. They named it Danny.
Two months later, when Mom found herself
responsible for cleaning and feeding the creature, she located a
prospective new home for it. The children took the news of Danny's
imminent departure quite well, though one of them remarked, "He's
been around here a long time--we'll miss him."
"Yes," Mom replied, "But he's too much work for one person,
and since I'm that one person, I say he goes."
Another child offered, "Well, maybe if he wouldn't eat so much and
wouldn't be so messy, we could keep him."
But Mom was firm. "It's time to take Danny to his new home now,"
she insisted. "Go and get his cage."
With one voice and in tearful outrage the children shouted, "Danny?
We thought you said Daddy!" |
Fourth of July |
|
FOURTH OF JULY
|
(By
David Graham, 1970) Hello, remember
me? I'm your flag. Some folks call me Old Glory, others call me the Stars and Stripes, the
Ensign, or just ... the flag. But whatever they call me, I am your flag. And, as I proudly
state, The Flag of the United States of America.
Something has been bothering me lately. I was wondering if I might talk it over with you.
It's about you and me.
I remember sometime ago (I think it was Memorial Day, or was it the fourth of July) when
people lined up on both sides of the street to watch a parade. When your father saw me
coming along, waving in the breeze, he took his hat off and held it against his left
shoulder. His hand was directly over his heart. Remember? And you, I remember you!
Standing there--straight as a soldier. You didn't have a hat on, but you gave the correct
salute. They taught you in school to place your hand over your heart. Remember your little
sister? Not to be outdone, she was saluting the same as you. I was proud, very proud, as I
came down that street. Oh, yes, there were some servicemen there, standing at attention,
giving the military salute. Ladies as well as men, civilians as well as military, paid me
respect ... reverence.
Now, if I sound a bit conceited ... well ... I have a right to. I represent the finest
country in the world--the United States of America. More than one aggressive nation has
tried to haul me down, only to feel the fury of this freedom loving country. Many of you
had to go overseas to defend me. A lot more blood has been shed since those patriotic
parades of long ago and I've had a few stars added since you were a boy, but I'm still the
same ole flag.
Dad is gone now ... and the hometown has a new look. The last time I came down your
street, I noticed that some of the old landmarks had given way to a number of new
buildings and homes. Yes sir, the old town sure has changed. I guess I have too, 'cause I
don't feel as proud as I did back then.
I see youngsters running and shouting through the streets, college boys and girls
disrupting our campuses, people selling hot dogs and bee while our National Anthem is
played .. everything from apathy to riots. They don't seem to know, or care, who I am. Not
too long ago, I saw a man take his hat off when I came by, he look around, didn't see
anybody else with theirs off... so he quickly put his back on.
Now, when I come down your street, you just stand there with your hands in your pockets.
Occasionally, you give me a small glance and then look away. When I think of all the
places I've been, Normandy, Gudalcanal; Iwo Jima; Battle of the Bulge; Korea, and Vietnam;
I wonder, what's happened? I'm still the same ole flag.
How can I be expected to fly high and proud from buildings and homes when within them,
there is no thought, love, or respect for me? Whatever happened to patriotism? Your
patriotism? Have you forgotten what I stand for? Have you forgotten all the battlefields
where men fought and died to keep this nation free? When you salute me, you salute them.
Take a look at the Memorial Honor Rolls sometime. Look at the names of those who never
came back. Some of them were friends and relatives of yours, maybe even went to school
with you. That's what you're saluting, not me.
Well, it won't be long before I come down your street again. So, when you see me, stand
straight, and place your hand over your heart. Do this because I represent you. You'll see
me wave back, my salute to you! |
| Fourth
of July |
8/29/00
The Men
of the Declaration of Independence
Have you ever
wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed the Declaration of
Independence?
Five signers were captured by the British as traitors,
and tortured before they died.
Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.
Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army
Two sons captured.
Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships
of the Revolutionary War.
They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred
honor.
What kind of men were they? Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists. Eleven
were merchants Nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of
means, well educated. But they signed the Declaration of Independence
knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.
Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships
swept
from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay
his
debts, and died in rags.
Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his
family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his
family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and
poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer,
Walton, Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.
At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson Jr, noted that the British
General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters.
He quietly urged General George Washington to open fire. The home was
destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.
Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed. The enemy jailed his
wife, and she died within a few months.
John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying. Their 13
children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to
waste. For more than a year he lived in forests and caves, returning home
to find his wife dead and his children vanished. A few weeks later he died
from
exhaustion and a broken heart.
Norris and Livingston suffered similar fates.
Such were the stories and sacrifices of the American Revolution. These
were not wild-eyed, rabble-rousing ruffians. They were soft-spoken men of
means
and education. They had security, but they valued liberty more.
Standing tall, straight, and unwavering, they pledged: "For the
support of this declaration, with firm reliance on the protection of the
divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other, our lives, our
fortunes, and our sacred honor."
They gave you and me a free and independent America. The history
books never
told you a lot about what happened in the Revolutionary War. We didn't
fight
just the British. We were British subjects at that time and we fought our
own
government! Some of us take these liberties so much for granted, but we
shouldn't. So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday
and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they
paid.
Remember: freedom is never free!
It's time we get the word out that patriotism is NOT a sin, and the
Fourth of July has more to it than beer, picnics, and baseball games.
Happy 4th of July----
|
Thanksgiving |
|
|
Christmas |
| CHRISTMAS |
Five-year-old
Billy was showing his Christmas presents to grandma, when she asked, “Did you get
everything you wanted for Christmas?” Billy thought for a moment before he answered,
“No, I didn’t, Grandma. But that’s OK. It wasn’t my birthday.”
|
|
CHRISTMAS
|
It's
just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no
identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the
past 10 years or so. It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas---oh, not the
true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it-overspending... the frantic
running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for
Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties
and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an
unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the
school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a
team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in
sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together,
presented a sharp contrast to our Boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and
sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other
team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a
wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.
Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys
got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of
street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head
sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot
of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football,
baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went
to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes
and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the
envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his
gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in
succeeding years.
For each Christmas, I followed the tradition---one year sending a group of mentally
handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly
brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The
envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on
Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed
anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the
children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost
its allure.
The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was
still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me
placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of
our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad.
The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren
standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down
the envelope.
|
|
CHRISTMAS
|
When the
song of the angels is silent
When the star in the sky is gone
When the kings and princes are home
When the shepherds are again tending their sheep
When the manger is darkened and still
The work of Christmas begins ...
To find the lost
To heal the broken
To feed the hungry
To rebuild the nations
To bring peace among people
To befriend the lonely
To release the prisoner
To make music in the heart.
|
| CHRISTMAS |
The
whole family and their friends are gathered around the Christmas tree exchanging gifts and
Mom says, “Time spent together is a Christmas gift any family can afford.”
|
| CHRISTMAS
|
A
kindergarten Sunday School teacher was working hard to get her class to focus on the story
of Jesus’ birth and to stop thinking only about Santa Claus. She read the story over
and over to them, and for good measure, taught them to sing “Silent Night.”
Finally, she asked them to draw their own designs for Christmas. One youngster had
done a very fine job in drawing the baby in a manger, with Mary and Joseph and the
animals; but the teacher noticed with anxiety that he had drawn a little fat man right
beside the manger. She asked, “Jimmy, that isn’t Santa, is it?” Jimmy
answered indignantly, “Of course not, that’s the Round John Virgin.”
|
|
CHRISTMAS
|
In 1994,
two Americans answered an invitation from the Russian Department of Education to teach
morals and ethics (based on biblical principles) in the public schools. They were invited
to teach at prisons, businesses, the fire and police departments and a large orphanage.
About 100 boys and girls, who had been abandoned, abused, and left in the care of a
government-run program were in the orphanage. They relate the following story in their own
words.
It was nearing the holiday season, 1994, time for our orphans to hear for the first
time—the traditional story of Christmas. We told them about Mary and Joseph arriving
in Bethlehem. Finding no room in the inn, the couple went to a stable, where the baby
Jesus was born and placed in a manger.
Throughout the story, the children and orphanage staff sat in amazement as they listened.
Some sat on the edges of their stools, trying to grasp every word.
Completing the story, we gave the children three small pieces of cardboard to make a rude
manger. Each child was given a small paper square, cut from yellow napkins I had brought
with me. No colored paper was available in the city.
Following instructions, the children tore the paper and carefully laid strips in the
manger for straw. Small squares of flannel, cut from a worn-out nightgown an American lady
was throwing away as she let Russia, were used for the baby’s blanket. A doll-like
baby was cut from tan felt we had brought from the United States.
The orphans were busy assembling their manger as I walked among them to see if they needed
any help. All went well until I got to one table where little Misah sat—he looked to
be about 6 years old and had finished his project.
As I looked at the little boy’s manger, I was startled to see not one, but two babies
in the manger. Crossing his arms in front of him and looking at his completed manger
scene, the child began to repeat the story very seriously.
For such a young boy, who had only heard the Christmas story once, he related the
happenings accurately—until he came to the part where Mary put the baby Jesus in the
manger.
Then Misha started to ad lib. He made up his own ending to the story as he said, “And
when Maria laid the baby in the manger, Jesus looked at me and asked me if I had a place
to stay. I told him I have no mamma and I have no papa, so I don’t have any place to
stay. Then Jesus told me I could stay with him. But I told him I couldn’t, because I
didn’t have a gift to give him like everybody else did. But I wanted to stay with
Jesus so much, so I thought about what I had that maybe I could use for a gift. I thought
maybe if I kept him warm, that would be a good gift.
So I asked Jesus, “If I keep you warm, will that be a good enough gift?”
And Jesus told me, “If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift anybody ever gave
me.” “So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and he told me I
could stay with him—for always.
As little Misha finished his story, his eyes brimmed full of tears that splashed down his
little cheeks. Putting his hand over his face, his head dropped to the table and his
shoulders shook as he sobbed and sobbed.
The little orphan had found someone who would never abandon nor abuse him, someone who
would stay with him—for always.
|
| CHRISTMAS
|
Preparing
for a large Christmas Evening family gathering, I had been giving out orders like a drill
sergeant.” “Pick up your things Don’t get your clothes dirty! Put away
those toys.”
My four year old daughter had been under foot, so I sent her to the next room to play with
our wooden Nativity set. As I scurried around setting the table I overheard her
make-believe conversation in an all-too-familiar tone of voice: “I don’t care who
you are, get those camels out of my living room!”
|
| CHRISTMAS |
A little
girl was saying her prayers a few nights before Christmas when she stopped suddenly and
asked her mother a question with a worried look: “What are we giving God for
Christmas? What does God want for Christmas?”
We smile, but it is an important question. Is God on your Christmas list?
|
| CHRISTMAS |
Seen on
a T-shirt: Out of my way, I’m Christmas shopping.
|
|
CHRISTMAS
|
There
was a kind man who was having a hard time with the Christmas story. Who was this Jesus guy
really? Was he God made flesh as the church said. He didn’t think so.
One year he told his wife he was sorry but he just couldn’t go to church with her on
Christmas eve. He would feel too much like a hypocrite. So he would stay home and wait for
her.
Shortly after his wife and children drove away, the snow began to fall. he went to the
window to watch the flurries getting heavier and heavier, and then went back to his
fireside chair and began to read the paper Minutes later he was startled by a thudding
sound, the another, and then another, sort of a thump or a thud. At first he thought
someone must be 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 take 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. Hurriedly, he put on a coat and galoshes, tramped through the
deepening snow to the barn. He opened the door wide and turned on a light.
But the birds would not come in. He figured food would entice them in, so he hurried back
to the house, fetched bread crumbs, sprinkled them on the snow, making a trail to the
yellow lighted wide-open doorway of the stable. But, to his dismay, the birds ignored the
bread crumbs and continued to flop around helplessly in the snow.
He tried catching them, he tried shooing them into the barn by walking around the, 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. He resigned himself, “To them, I
am a stranger and a terrifying creature. If only I could think of some way to let them
know that they can trust me, that I’m not trying to hurt them, to help them. But
how?” because any move that he made tended to frighten the, confuse them. They just
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, and he understood.
|
| Christmas |
What in
the world do leaping lords, French hens, swimming swans, and
especially that partridge who won't come out of the pear tree have to do with
Christmas?
From l558 until l829, Roman Catholics in England were not allowed to
practice their faith openly. Someone during that era wrote this
carol as a catechism song for young Catholics. It has two levels of
meaning; the surface meaning, plus a hidden meaning known only to
members of their church. Each element in the carol has a code word
for a religious reality which the children could remember.
1. A partridge in a pear tree signifies the crucifixion of Jesus.
2. Two turtle doves represent the Old and New Testaments.
3. Three French hens represent the things that will last - faith, hope
and charity (love).
4. Four gospels sing the song of salvation, referenced by the calling
birds.
5. Five golden rings are the original books of the Bible given to
Moses.
6. Six geese a-laying symbolize the six days of creation.
7. Seven swans stand for the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit.
8. Eight maids a-milking are actually the eight beatitudes from the
Bible.
9. Nine fruits of the Holy Spirit (from Galatians 5) are dancing
ladies.
10. Ten lords a-leaping are the Ten Commandments
11. Eleven Pipers Piping represent Jesus' faithful disciples.
12. Finally, 12 drummers drumming are actually the Apostles Creed. |
| Christmas |
4/05/01
Christmas meaning
Pa never had much compassion
for the lazy or those who squandered their means
and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who
were genuinely in need, his
heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the
greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.
It was Christmas Eve
1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved
in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me
the rifle that I'd wanted so bad that year before Christmas.
We did the chores early that
night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time
so we could read in the Bible. So after supper was over I took my
boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited
for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for
myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures.
But Pa didn't get the Bible,
instead he bundled up and went outside. I couldn't figure it out
because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry
about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity. Soon Pa
came back in. It was a
cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard.
"Come on, Matt," he
said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight." I was
really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for
Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly
reason that I could see.
We'd already done all the
chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed
doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not
very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do
something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and
mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the
house.
Something was up, but I didn't know what.
Outside, I became even more
dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already
hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't
going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never
hitched up the big sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa
was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up
beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy.
When I was on, Pa pulled the
sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got
off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high
sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high
sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just
the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a
lot bigger with the high sideboards on. When we had exchanged the
sideboards Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of
wood---the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down
from the mountain, and then
all fall sawing into blocks and splitting.
What was he
doing? Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked,
"what are you doing?"
"You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The
Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had
died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest
being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but
so what? "Yeah," I said, "why?" "I rode by
just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in
the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood,
Matt." That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the
woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We
loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able
to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went
to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon.
He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait.
When he returned he was
carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of
something in his left hand. "What's in the little sack?" I
asked. "Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey
just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the
woodpile this morning. I
got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas
without a little candy."
We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I
tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by
worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of
what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw
into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and
flour, so we could spare
that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes
and candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen
had closer neighbors than us. It shouldn't have been our concern.
We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood
as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the
door. We knocked. The
door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?"
"Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and
my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"
Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket
wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another
and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that
hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match
and finally lit the lamp.
"We brought you a few
things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour.
I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the
shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one
pair at a time. There
was a pair for her and one for each of the children---sturdy shoes, the
best, shoes that would last. I watched her carefully. She bit
her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and
started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted
to say something, but it wouldn't come out.
"We brought a load of
wood too, Ma'am," Pa said, then he turned to me and said, "Matt,
go bring enough in to last for a while. Let's get that fire up to
size and heat this place up." I wasn't the same person when I
went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat
and, much as I
hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept
seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother
standing there with tears running down her cheeks and so much gratitude in
her heart that she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me and a
joy filled my soul that I'd never known before. I had given at
Christmas many times
before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see
we were literally saving the lives of these people. I soon had the
fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared.
The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and
Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face
for a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless
you," she said. "I know the Lord himself has sent you. The
children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to
spare us."
In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up
in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms
before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was
probably true. I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked
the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of
his way for Ma and me, and
many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it. Pa
insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed
when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get.
Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord
would make sure he got the right sizes.
Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to
leave. Pa took each of the
kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and
didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their pa, and I
was glad that I still had mine. At the door Pa turned to Widow
Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the
children over for Christmas
dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can
eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many
meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to
have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little
for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two older brothers
and two older sisters were all married and had moved away. Widow
Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to
say, 'May the Lord bless you,' I know for certain that He will."
Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't
even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and
said, "Matt I want you to know something. Your ma and me have
been tucking a little money
away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we
didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little
money from years back came by
to make things square. Your ma and me were real
excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into
town this morning to do just that. But on the way I saw little Jakey
out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and
I knew what I had to do. So, Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little
candy for those children. I hope you understand."
I understood, and my eyes
became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so
glad Pa had done it. Just then the rifle seemed very low
on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more.
He had given me the look on
Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children.
For the rest of my life, Whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a
block of wood, I remembered,
and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa
that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he
had given me the best Christmas of my life. |
| Christmas |
04/05/01
ONE SMALL CANDLE, by Michael Passons (from "Christmas Stories for the
Heart", compiled by Alice Gray}
There are many things in a boy's life that help define him as a man. His
first bike, his favorite dog, his secret hiding place, or the way he was
raised and the values instilled in him. I feel I am a blessed man to
have the kind of upbringing that I had, growing up in a place like Yazoo
City, Mississippi.
Yes, I remember my first bike. It was purple -- not my favorite
color at the time -- but it rode like the wind! And trailing not far
behind that purple gust was my favorite childhood dog, a matronly collie
named (what else?) Lassie. Most every day we would travel together
through the woods to my secret place (still a secret), and would discuss
the world as we saw it. I did most of the talking, but Lassie was a
great listener.
I think the greatest wonder of my formative years had to have been
Christmas. Yes, that celebrated day of the year in which little
boys acquire such things as bikes, puppies, and the like. I can
remember my brother and I waking up on Christmas morning, so excited and
running so fast into the living room that we didn't give our eyes time to
focus and
adjust. I would stand there for what seemed like an eternity,
straining to focus on those blurry objects left for me under the tree.
In fact, "focus" became a pivotal word for that day.
As her two little boys zeroed in on their bounty, my mother was busy in
the kitchen, delicately frosting the two layers of a cake baked the night
before.
This was no ordinary cake. It was part of a Passons' family
tradition. I can honestly say that the focus of Christmas in our home was
never on the presents and holiday cheer, wonderful as those memories may
have been. The centerpiece of that day was always and unmistakably
the
celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. My parents wanted so much
for us boys to know Christmas in its truest sense. That's why, to this
day, when I think of my childhood Christmases, the same picture comes to
my
mind. I visualize a young family of four in a humble little kitchen,
in Yazoo City, Mississippi. I see them huddled in a circle, singing,
their faces aglow from the faint light of one small candle in the middle
of that cake . . . two young parents gathered with their boys, singing
Happy Birthday to the King of the universe. |
| Christmas |
04/05/01
The word
"Christmas" means "Mass of Christ," later shortened to
"Christ-Mass." The even shorter form "Xmas" - first
used in Europe in the 1500s - is derived from the Greek alphabet, in which
X is the first letter of Christ's name: Xristos, therefor
"X-Mass." Today we know that Christ was not born on the 25th of
December. The date was chosen to coincide with the pagan Roman
celebrations honouring Saturnus (the harvest god) and Mithras (the ancient
god of light), a form of sun worship. These celebrations came on or just
after the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year in the northern
hemisphere, to announce that winter is not forever, that life continues,
and an invitation to stay in good spirit.
The
Xmas candy cane, shaped as a shepherds’ crook, represents the humble
shepherds who were first to worship the new-born Christ. Legend has it
that the candy cane was invented in 1670 by a choirmaster at the Cologne
Cathedral who handed out the bent sugar sticks among children to keep them
quiet during the long Living Crèche ceremony.
The Father
Xmas (Santa Claus) figure is based on Saint Nicholas (270 - 310AD), the
patron saint of children. The modern-day figure of Father Xmas (Santa
Claus) was introduced by artist Haddon Sundblom in advertisements for the
Coca-Cola Company. Saint Nicholas became Sinterklaas for the Dutch. The
American pronounced it Santa Claus. In Britain and the commonwealth, he is
Father Xmas (or Father Christmas), in France, he is Père Noël. |
|
Christmas |
11/14/01
The
"In" and 'Out" of Christmas
By Hugh R. Horne
There is an inside
and an outside to Christmas, as with everything else.
The Wise Men saw the outside the star in the east. But they apparently
wanted more. They wanted the inside, so they said, "Where is
He?"
If we
see only the outside, we miss the real point of Christmas.
Perhaps the inside can best be expressed in an experience wi1ich I had
with my seven-year-old son in October. He said somethir1g like this:
"Dad, I hope I get some gifts when Christmas comes, but how about the
kids who may not get any gifts? Can't we give something to them?"
For a moment I could say nothing. Then I kissed my son on his cheek. He
looked at me quizzically, and with the naïveté of a child he
inquired, "What's that for''"
Perhaps he did not truly understand when I said. "Son. you have
discovered the inside of Christmas.''
The real Christmas is truly an inside job. In other words, to catch the
true spirit of Christmas there must be a heartfelt response.
If you judge Christmas only by the outside, you are likely to be
disappointed. Such outside appearances may include baking a turkey,
lighting a Christmas tree, or playing a recording of "Joy to the
World." These are all-good and may prove to be well worthwhile, but
Christmas is more than this.
The inside of Christmas is illustrated in the experience of a little boy
who was seen entering a church several times on Christmas day. The
minister asked him, "What gift did you ask of the Christ child?"
"Oh," came the reply, "I didn't ask Him for anything. I was
just in there loving Him for a little while."
Christmas, of course, is primarily for children. But it is for grown-tips,
too. It is a wonderful period of necessary defrosting of the chill which
sometimes grips our hearts.
Let us remember, then, that Christmas really is not a date; it is a state
of mind!
|
|
Christmas |
11/14/01
Season of the Soul
By Anna May Nielsen
The world is filled with the sounds of Christmas. If you listen with your
outer ears, you will hear carols, bells and laughter, and now and then a
sob of loneliness. If you listen with the inner ear, you will hear the
sound of angels' wings, the hush of inner | |
