Christmas Star
There shall a new star arise (Hel. 14:5).
Rebecca Todd, “Christmas Star,” Friend, Dec. 1996, 36–37
“I wanted to be Mary, Mommy,” Elizabeth said. “But Julie gets to be Mary, and I’m only the star.”
Mom smiled down at Elizabeth as they walked to the car in the church parking lot. “Well, dear, Julie is six, and you are only four.”
The edges of Elizabeth’s mouth pulled down into a frown. “But Julie gets to wear a pretty blue blanket on her head and hold a real-live baby.”
“Mary was a very brave and good woman,” Mom said. “I can see why you would want to be her. But I think you have the perfect part for you!”
“The star?”
“Yes. You see, whenever anything happens, you are the first to tell everyone. Just yesterday you ran in and told me that Mr. Allen had fallen on his steps. And because you were such a good helper by telling me, I was able to go over and help him into his house.”
Elizabeth grinned. She felt happy when Mom was extra-pleased with her. “But how is that like the Christmas star?”
“Well, many of the people in Bethlehem did not know that Jesus Christ had been born. The beautiful star sparkling in the sky told the whole world that the Savior had been born.”
“And the Wise Men saw it too!”
“That’s right. And even the people in the Book of Mormon who lived far away saw the star.”
“Wow! The whole world saw the star shining!”
Mom smiled at Elizabeth’s glowing face. “See, you do have an important part next Sunday. What greater message is there than the message of the Savior’s birth?”
Elizabeth sat quietly in the car, thinking for a while. Then she said, “Mommy, I’m going to practice smiling so big that everyone will see that I’m the Christmas star and know I’m happy because Jesus Christ was born.”
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Day #19
The Angel on the Ammo Can
By John L. Meisenbach
John L. Meisenbach, “The Angel on the Ammo Can,” Ensign, Dec. 1991, 63–64
Each year I feel the Christmas spirit in our home as we get out the decorations. The nativity scene is put in its usual place, and the stockings are hung above the fireplace. The reindeer and elves are put on the stair rail. And always, when we place the Christmas angel in her traditional spot, my mind wanders to a place halfway around the world.
It’s 22 December 1970. I am in the jungle near the village of Song Be, South Vietnam. We can hear the resupply choppers coming. We prepare the landing zone and wait to receive supplies: food, water, ammunition, and, most important, letters and packages from home.
I make sure the men under my command have received their rations and have all their mail and packages. Then I take some time to read my own letters. My mind wanders, and many things trouble me as I read the letters—some of them mailed over four weeks ago. I’ve been in Vietnam for 335 days, most of them spent in the field. I feel hardened and frustrated with life. Here it is—three days before Christmas—and the one thing I’m thinking of is that I have only twenty-nine days left until I’m on my way home. I hope my last missions will go well, that I’ll be able to leave my responsibilities and my men well, and that my replacement will be the best one they could receive.
There are no thoughts of Christmas or of my Savior’s birth until I open the package with the beautiful white angel inside. She’s about twelve inches tall, dressed in white clothes, with golden hair. I put her on top of an overturned ammunition can and begin to read the letter from my dear mother.
In her own words she tells me the story of the birth of our Savior and bears a quiet, sweet testimony. I feel myself being lifted spiritually. My mother told me this story over and over when I was a child, but never did I feel the Spirit of Christ so close before.
I glance up from the letter and notice some of my men looking at the white angel. I wind her up and no one says a word as “Silent Night” fills the air and the Christmas angel brings special emotions out in each one of us. Some tears are shed and feelings exchanged as the Spirit of Christ touches each one of us.
Later, as I pack and prepare to move out, I wrap the angel carefully and place her in my rucksack. I think of home, family, and loved ones, but most of all I think of Jesus and all that he has done for me.
By John L. Meisenbach
John L. Meisenbach, “The Angel on the Ammo Can,” Ensign, Dec. 1991, 63–64
Each year I feel the Christmas spirit in our home as we get out the decorations. The nativity scene is put in its usual place, and the stockings are hung above the fireplace. The reindeer and elves are put on the stair rail. And always, when we place the Christmas angel in her traditional spot, my mind wanders to a place halfway around the world.
It’s 22 December 1970. I am in the jungle near the village of Song Be, South Vietnam. We can hear the resupply choppers coming. We prepare the landing zone and wait to receive supplies: food, water, ammunition, and, most important, letters and packages from home.
I make sure the men under my command have received their rations and have all their mail and packages. Then I take some time to read my own letters. My mind wanders, and many things trouble me as I read the letters—some of them mailed over four weeks ago. I’ve been in Vietnam for 335 days, most of them spent in the field. I feel hardened and frustrated with life. Here it is—three days before Christmas—and the one thing I’m thinking of is that I have only twenty-nine days left until I’m on my way home. I hope my last missions will go well, that I’ll be able to leave my responsibilities and my men well, and that my replacement will be the best one they could receive.
There are no thoughts of Christmas or of my Savior’s birth until I open the package with the beautiful white angel inside. She’s about twelve inches tall, dressed in white clothes, with golden hair. I put her on top of an overturned ammunition can and begin to read the letter from my dear mother.
In her own words she tells me the story of the birth of our Savior and bears a quiet, sweet testimony. I feel myself being lifted spiritually. My mother told me this story over and over when I was a child, but never did I feel the Spirit of Christ so close before.
I glance up from the letter and notice some of my men looking at the white angel. I wind her up and no one says a word as “Silent Night” fills the air and the Christmas angel brings special emotions out in each one of us. Some tears are shed and feelings exchanged as the Spirit of Christ touches each one of us.
Later, as I pack and prepare to move out, I wrap the angel carefully and place her in my rucksack. I think of home, family, and loved ones, but most of all I think of Jesus and all that he has done for me.
Day #17
Christmas Candle
Ann Edwards Cannon, “Christmas Candle,” Friend, Dec 1980, 16
Through the window I can see
your Christmas candle glow.
The haze it makes shines quietly
Against the evening snow.
Its light reminds me of the night
In Israel far away
When shepherds saw skies burning bright
And new life in the hay.
Ann Edwards Cannon, “Christmas Candle,” Friend, Dec 1980, 16
Through the window I can see
your Christmas candle glow.
The haze it makes shines quietly
Against the evening snow.
Its light reminds me of the night
In Israel far away
When shepherds saw skies burning bright
And new life in the hay.
Day #14
Christmas Bells through the Fog
By Beth Dayley
Beth Dayley, “Christmas Bells through the Fog,” Liahona, Dec. 2001, 28–30
Christmas dawned on a day as murky as my mood. A dense fog had crept into the Italian city where my husband’s military assignment had taken us. My two daughters were not very excited about the few gifts they had received. Their thoughts, like mine, were with their father, who was in a military hospital in Germany.
“It doesn’t seem like Christmas without Daddy here,” eight-year-old Diana commented. I nodded, thinking about all the seasonal cheer we were missing—decorations, family parties, holiday feasts.
“Well, at least some of us are together,” said 17-year-old Athena quietly.
When my husband called from the hospital in Germany, I talked to him briefly and then handed the phone to Diana. To my surprise, she refused to speak to him, even though she hadn’t seen or talked to him in weeks. Confused by her reaction, I ran the events of the past month through my mind.
Some weeks earlier my husband, Ed, began complaining of pain in his left forearm. In no time it swelled and became stiff. The doctors hospitalized him and gave him antibiotics intravenously. But his hand became useless.
I arranged for our oldest son to stay with his grandmother for Christmas instead of coming home from college. Our three other children tried to help me get ready for Christmas, but the spirit of the season could not penetrate my anxiety.
One night was especially bad. I couldn’t sleep, so at 3:30 a.m. I called the hospital. The nurse said Ed was in such pain he was pacing the floor. Suddenly I knew he needed a priesthood blessing. Since the hour was so early, I hesitated to call our home teacher, Bob DeWitt. But Bob arrived on his own at about 5:00 a.m. He called another priesthood holder and hurried to the hospital. Bob felt prompted to promise Ed he would eventually regain the full use of his hand.
Moments after the blessing, a group of doctors conferred around Ed’s bed. They couldn’t explain what was causing the damage to his arm. Although in pain, Ed commented that it was too bad the X ray couldn’t show more than just the bone in his arm; it would help if they could see the tissue as well. Ed’s words startled the doctors, and they decided to use an ultrasound machine to look at his arm in a manner not commonly used. The procedure was later written up in medical journals.
Using the ultrasound in this new way, they located a large pocket of infection deep within Ed’s forearm. They operated immediately.
“It’s lucky we located the abscess when we did,” the surgeon explained to me later. “Even a few more hours could have cost Ed the use of his arm completely. As it is, I doubt he will ever be able to use his fingers again.”
The doctors transferred Ed to a large hospital in Germany, and I accompanied him while friends took care of our children. Ed’s condition became worse; the bone became infected, and antibiotics were unexplainably ineffective.
Days went by in a blur as Ed underwent multiple surgeries. Ed insisted I fly home to be with the children for Christmas.
So here it was Christmas morning. I held my youngest daughter close, still not sure why she had refused to speak with her father. Finally she hesitantly took the phone, and within seconds, her face was wreathed in a smile.
“I thought Daddy was dying,” she explained later. “He was so sick when he left.”
Holding both daughters tightly, I smiled through my tears. Faintly, through the fog, the tolling of Christmas bells reached us. I reflected on the gift we commemorate each Christmas—our Savior, who redeemed us from eternal death and made eternal families possible. I realized that through the Lord’s Atonement and the ordinances of the temple, we could be together forever.
Ed spent nine months in hospitals—and three long, difficult years passed before he recovered completely. But we never questioned that his priesthood blessing would be fulfilled or that our greatest blessings came through the Lord Jesus Christ.
As I listened to the bells that Christmas morning in Italy, I finally welcomed Christmas into my heart.
By Beth Dayley
Beth Dayley, “Christmas Bells through the Fog,” Liahona, Dec. 2001, 28–30
Christmas dawned on a day as murky as my mood. A dense fog had crept into the Italian city where my husband’s military assignment had taken us. My two daughters were not very excited about the few gifts they had received. Their thoughts, like mine, were with their father, who was in a military hospital in Germany.
“It doesn’t seem like Christmas without Daddy here,” eight-year-old Diana commented. I nodded, thinking about all the seasonal cheer we were missing—decorations, family parties, holiday feasts.
“Well, at least some of us are together,” said 17-year-old Athena quietly.
When my husband called from the hospital in Germany, I talked to him briefly and then handed the phone to Diana. To my surprise, she refused to speak to him, even though she hadn’t seen or talked to him in weeks. Confused by her reaction, I ran the events of the past month through my mind.
Some weeks earlier my husband, Ed, began complaining of pain in his left forearm. In no time it swelled and became stiff. The doctors hospitalized him and gave him antibiotics intravenously. But his hand became useless.
I arranged for our oldest son to stay with his grandmother for Christmas instead of coming home from college. Our three other children tried to help me get ready for Christmas, but the spirit of the season could not penetrate my anxiety.
One night was especially bad. I couldn’t sleep, so at 3:30 a.m. I called the hospital. The nurse said Ed was in such pain he was pacing the floor. Suddenly I knew he needed a priesthood blessing. Since the hour was so early, I hesitated to call our home teacher, Bob DeWitt. But Bob arrived on his own at about 5:00 a.m. He called another priesthood holder and hurried to the hospital. Bob felt prompted to promise Ed he would eventually regain the full use of his hand.
Moments after the blessing, a group of doctors conferred around Ed’s bed. They couldn’t explain what was causing the damage to his arm. Although in pain, Ed commented that it was too bad the X ray couldn’t show more than just the bone in his arm; it would help if they could see the tissue as well. Ed’s words startled the doctors, and they decided to use an ultrasound machine to look at his arm in a manner not commonly used. The procedure was later written up in medical journals.
Using the ultrasound in this new way, they located a large pocket of infection deep within Ed’s forearm. They operated immediately.
“It’s lucky we located the abscess when we did,” the surgeon explained to me later. “Even a few more hours could have cost Ed the use of his arm completely. As it is, I doubt he will ever be able to use his fingers again.”
The doctors transferred Ed to a large hospital in Germany, and I accompanied him while friends took care of our children. Ed’s condition became worse; the bone became infected, and antibiotics were unexplainably ineffective.
Days went by in a blur as Ed underwent multiple surgeries. Ed insisted I fly home to be with the children for Christmas.
So here it was Christmas morning. I held my youngest daughter close, still not sure why she had refused to speak with her father. Finally she hesitantly took the phone, and within seconds, her face was wreathed in a smile.
“I thought Daddy was dying,” she explained later. “He was so sick when he left.”
Holding both daughters tightly, I smiled through my tears. Faintly, through the fog, the tolling of Christmas bells reached us. I reflected on the gift we commemorate each Christmas—our Savior, who redeemed us from eternal death and made eternal families possible. I realized that through the Lord’s Atonement and the ordinances of the temple, we could be together forever.
Ed spent nine months in hospitals—and three long, difficult years passed before he recovered completely. But we never questioned that his priesthood blessing would be fulfilled or that our greatest blessings came through the Lord Jesus Christ.
As I listened to the bells that Christmas morning in Italy, I finally welcomed Christmas into my heart.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Day #12
In Shepherds’ Field
By Annie Tintle
As I thought about the place where the Savior was born, I began to understand His role as the Shepherd of mankind.
Annie Tintle, “In Shepherds’ Field,” Ensign, Dec. 2008, 19
While attending Brigham Young University, I studied in Jerusalem with approximately 170 students during the fall of 1998. As the Christmas season approached, we began to focus our studies and field trips around the birth of the Savior.
It was cool and windy the evening that 40 of us pulled up to our last and most anticipated stop for the day. Tradition held that Shepherds’ Field, located just outside of Bethlehem, was the place where the ancient shepherds sat watching sheep on the night of the Savior’s birth, never anticipating what would soon be proclaimed to them.
The field was nothing like I had imagined. I saw a terraced hill with hardly any greenery. We walked down a rocky path, and each of us found a quiet place to sit and write in our journals. I finally found a large rock to sit on. It was cold, uncomfortable, and surrounded by thorns.
When we were told we would be able to see the local shepherds and their sheep, I wasn’t prepared to see children in rags. But even though they were dressed in worn, secondhand clothing, their eyes were bright. Open-palmed, they approached our group’s chaperone. After asking the children their names, she gave each one a few shekels. One of the children carried a newborn lamb. He approached me and offered to let me hold it.
As I took the warm baby lamb in my arms, I began to see the situation differently.
The Savior knew about the life of a shepherd. He knew about the cold nights, rocky trails, and danger of thieves and predators. He knew shepherds sometimes held the baby lambs in their arms, standing watch while waiting for the darkness to pass.
While the Wise Men were able to bring the Christ child gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, the shepherds could offer little in the way of material gifts. Their sacrifice was simply in coming to offer humble hearts and joyful spirits in partaking in the celebration of their infant Lord.
The Savior has brought the gift of joy to our cold and dreary world. He has promised to stand watch through the long, dark night, despite the terrors and hardships this life can bring. He knows us, His sheep. He is our Shepherd.
That night, for the first time, I began to understand the promise in the gift of our Savior.
By Annie Tintle
As I thought about the place where the Savior was born, I began to understand His role as the Shepherd of mankind.
Annie Tintle, “In Shepherds’ Field,” Ensign, Dec. 2008, 19
While attending Brigham Young University, I studied in Jerusalem with approximately 170 students during the fall of 1998. As the Christmas season approached, we began to focus our studies and field trips around the birth of the Savior.
It was cool and windy the evening that 40 of us pulled up to our last and most anticipated stop for the day. Tradition held that Shepherds’ Field, located just outside of Bethlehem, was the place where the ancient shepherds sat watching sheep on the night of the Savior’s birth, never anticipating what would soon be proclaimed to them.
The field was nothing like I had imagined. I saw a terraced hill with hardly any greenery. We walked down a rocky path, and each of us found a quiet place to sit and write in our journals. I finally found a large rock to sit on. It was cold, uncomfortable, and surrounded by thorns.
When we were told we would be able to see the local shepherds and their sheep, I wasn’t prepared to see children in rags. But even though they were dressed in worn, secondhand clothing, their eyes were bright. Open-palmed, they approached our group’s chaperone. After asking the children their names, she gave each one a few shekels. One of the children carried a newborn lamb. He approached me and offered to let me hold it.
As I took the warm baby lamb in my arms, I began to see the situation differently.
The Savior knew about the life of a shepherd. He knew about the cold nights, rocky trails, and danger of thieves and predators. He knew shepherds sometimes held the baby lambs in their arms, standing watch while waiting for the darkness to pass.
While the Wise Men were able to bring the Christ child gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, the shepherds could offer little in the way of material gifts. Their sacrifice was simply in coming to offer humble hearts and joyful spirits in partaking in the celebration of their infant Lord.
The Savior has brought the gift of joy to our cold and dreary world. He has promised to stand watch through the long, dark night, despite the terrors and hardships this life can bring. He knows us, His sheep. He is our Shepherd.
That night, for the first time, I began to understand the promise in the gift of our Savior.
Day #5
A Small, Snow-Covered Tree
By Darrell Smart
When we arrived at the cemetery, we were touched by what we found.
Darrell Smart, “A Small, Snow-Covered Tree,” Ensign, Dec. 2008, 18
One day, shortly before Christmas, our third child and first son, Bay, was born. As I said good-bye that evening to my exhausted but joyful wife and left the hospital, the warmth and joy that accompanied the birth of my son overwhelmed the cold chill of that clear December night.
The following December we celebrated the first birthday of our dark-eyed, dark-haired son. The day after Christmas, during an evening of games at the home of my in-laws, our revelry was interrupted by an awful shriek from my mother-in-law: “He’s not breathing!” She had gone to check on Bay, who had been sleeping on her bed, and discovered his cold, lifeless body. We immediately rushed our son to the hospital, attempting CPR on the way. We were grief-stricken to learn that nothing could be done to save his life. He had died from sudden infant death syndrome.
Since then, Christmas has been filled with a much deeper meaning for our family. Each year on Christmas Eve when we take down our other children’s stockings to fill them, one solitary stocking is left on the fireplace mantle. Throughout the remainder of the holiday the stocking serves as a reminder of Bay.
Each year, around the time of Bay’s birthday, my wife and I drive to the cemetery where he is buried. At each visit we find that someone else has arrived before us and placed something on our son’s grave: one year it was delicate, small flowers; the next year, a stuffed bear; the next, a little Christmas tree decorated with miniature ornaments. We have no idea who is responsible; the gifts, which touch us deeply, are never accompanied by a note or card.
When I hinted to my mother-in-law that I knew her secret, she denied responsibility. The following year while she and my father-in-law were serving a Church mission abroad, we again found that someone had placed a gift on our son’s grave. Even after inquiring with other family members and friends, we were unable to solve the mystery.
Ten years after our son’s death, a series of snowstorms prevented us from traveling short distances. As a result, our annual visit to our son’s grave site was delayed until several days after Christmas. When we finally made it, we saw a small, decorated Christmas tree, mostly buried in the snow, standing bravely at the head of Bay’s small grave. The effort it must have taken for someone to get to the cemetery through the heavy snowfall overwhelmed us. Tears streamed down our faces as we realized that someone still shared our grief and loss.
After that, we were more resolved than ever to discover the identity of our benefactor and thank him or her for showing us such compassion. But as we reflected more, we realized that whoever was doing these acts of kindness did not want to be identified. We decided to allow our friend to remain anonymous. We replaced our need to thank our friend with a desire to simply live better.
It is now harder for us to speak ill of or criticize any of our friends or family members, because any one of them may be our anonymous friend.
Often while doing service, my wife and I pause to examine our hearts: are we doing good things to be seen by others or for the pure love of Christ and of our fellowmen?
For us, charity—humble and never seeking its own—is symbolized by a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, half-buried in snow, resting in a quiet cemetery.
By Darrell Smart
When we arrived at the cemetery, we were touched by what we found.
Darrell Smart, “A Small, Snow-Covered Tree,” Ensign, Dec. 2008, 18
One day, shortly before Christmas, our third child and first son, Bay, was born. As I said good-bye that evening to my exhausted but joyful wife and left the hospital, the warmth and joy that accompanied the birth of my son overwhelmed the cold chill of that clear December night.
The following December we celebrated the first birthday of our dark-eyed, dark-haired son. The day after Christmas, during an evening of games at the home of my in-laws, our revelry was interrupted by an awful shriek from my mother-in-law: “He’s not breathing!” She had gone to check on Bay, who had been sleeping on her bed, and discovered his cold, lifeless body. We immediately rushed our son to the hospital, attempting CPR on the way. We were grief-stricken to learn that nothing could be done to save his life. He had died from sudden infant death syndrome.
Since then, Christmas has been filled with a much deeper meaning for our family. Each year on Christmas Eve when we take down our other children’s stockings to fill them, one solitary stocking is left on the fireplace mantle. Throughout the remainder of the holiday the stocking serves as a reminder of Bay.
Each year, around the time of Bay’s birthday, my wife and I drive to the cemetery where he is buried. At each visit we find that someone else has arrived before us and placed something on our son’s grave: one year it was delicate, small flowers; the next year, a stuffed bear; the next, a little Christmas tree decorated with miniature ornaments. We have no idea who is responsible; the gifts, which touch us deeply, are never accompanied by a note or card.
When I hinted to my mother-in-law that I knew her secret, she denied responsibility. The following year while she and my father-in-law were serving a Church mission abroad, we again found that someone had placed a gift on our son’s grave. Even after inquiring with other family members and friends, we were unable to solve the mystery.
Ten years after our son’s death, a series of snowstorms prevented us from traveling short distances. As a result, our annual visit to our son’s grave site was delayed until several days after Christmas. When we finally made it, we saw a small, decorated Christmas tree, mostly buried in the snow, standing bravely at the head of Bay’s small grave. The effort it must have taken for someone to get to the cemetery through the heavy snowfall overwhelmed us. Tears streamed down our faces as we realized that someone still shared our grief and loss.
After that, we were more resolved than ever to discover the identity of our benefactor and thank him or her for showing us such compassion. But as we reflected more, we realized that whoever was doing these acts of kindness did not want to be identified. We decided to allow our friend to remain anonymous. We replaced our need to thank our friend with a desire to simply live better.
It is now harder for us to speak ill of or criticize any of our friends or family members, because any one of them may be our anonymous friend.
Often while doing service, my wife and I pause to examine our hearts: are we doing good things to be seen by others or for the pure love of Christ and of our fellowmen?
For us, charity—humble and never seeking its own—is symbolized by a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, half-buried in snow, resting in a quiet cemetery.
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