24 Days of Christmas Day 8

8 December 

Bread of Life

 John 6:35  35 And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst.

Carol: The First Noel Hymn #213

Story: I Think You Have a Fire at Your Store

I Think You Have a Fire at Your Store

LARUE H. SOELBERG

This Christmas had begun like any other. The laughter of our happily excited children was evidence that Santa had indeed been able to decipher the hastily scrawled notes mailed weeks before.

As was our custom, LeRoy and I would wait until the children had sufficient time to inspect, test, compare, and segregate their new treasures before we would open our gifts.

The similarity of this Christmas to any other ended here.

The loud knock on the front door demanded immediate answer.

"Come quick!" There was urgency in our friend's voice. "I think you have a fire at your store!"

Fears flooded my mind as I ran through the vacant lot to the store, a small grocery business, which was not yet half paid for.  There were no flames rising from the building, but the win­dows were solid black.

A fireman came running up and put his hand against the window.

"No heat." He seemed relieved. "There's no fire now— let's open it up."

Our hopes were raised. Perhaps we had not lost everything!

He turned the key and pushed open the door. The dense, choking smoke that had filled every minute space of the small building drifted out into the street.

My heart sank. It was like looking at the inside of a coal-black furnace. Not a crack, not a corner, not one can stacked beneath another had escaped the ugly black filth!

LeRoy, with the help of some of the firemen, removed the motor that had burned itself out. We stood gazing in disbelief at the result.

True, the store had not burned, but was it salvageable? Perhaps the building and equipment could be cleaned, but what about the thousands of bottles, cans, and cartons? Even if they could be saved, how could we possibly survive the closing of business for even a few days?

"Only one thing to do." The fireman's voice was surpris­ingly cheerful. "Let's see if we can clean it up."

We were reluctant to accept his offer of help. After all, wasn't this Christmas, a day to be spent with family and loved ones?

"Come on," he joked. "My son will be glad to have me out of the house so that he can play with his electric train. Get me a bucket and some soap."

No sooner would we equip one volunteer with cleaning items than another would appear at the door, demanding, as one neighbor put it, "a chance to participate in this joyful holi­day project."

Each person who came to the door uttered an astonished "Oh, no!" and then, "Where do you want me to start?"

By 11 a.m. there were over forty people: friends, neighbors, firemen, patrons, and new acquaintances, scrubbing away at the terrible black goo. Still they kept coming! We were over­whelmed!

The men had taken over the cleaning of the ceiling, the most stubborn and difficult task of all. The women were working in twos, taking items off the shelves, cleaning what they could, and boxing the rest.

One young lad who was recuperating from a broken leg made trips to the cafe to get hamburgers and potato chips to feed the workers. Another brought turkey and rolls which, I'm certain, were to have been the biggest part of his family's Christ­mas dinner.

An energetic teenager must have run twenty miles emptying buckets and refilling them with clean hot water.

A service station operator brought hundreds of old cleaning rags.

An electrician worked on a motor replacement and soon had the refrigerator case operating again.

This was no ordinary cleaning job. Every inch had to be scrubbed, scoured, washed, and rinsed. Sometimes this procedure had to be repeated seven times before the white of the walls and ceiling would show through, yet everyone was laughing and joking as though they were having a good time.

"Actually, I only dropped by to supervise," came a com­ment from behind the bread rack.

"I bet this cures you of following fire trucks," a fireman chided his wife.

We all laughed when an attractive blonde woman, who was perched on top of the vegetable case and now bore a striking resemblance to a chimney sweep, burst out with a chorus of "Chim Chim Cheree."

It was shortly after 2 a.m. when we locked the front door. Everyone had gone. As they finished their jobs, they just slipped out—not waiting for a word of thanks or a smile of appreciation.

We walked home hand in hand. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks. Not the tears of frustration and despair that had threatened earlier, but tears of love and gratitude. Business would open as usual tomorrow—because fifty-four kind people had the true spirit of Christmas in their hearts.

Our children had left the tree lights burning, and our pres­ents lay unopened in a neat pile on the floor. They would wait until morning. Whatever those gaily wrapped packages con­tained would be dwarfed, indeed, by the great gift of friendship given to us that Christmas Day.

Deseret News. December 21. 1970.