Each of us is an Innkeeper Who Decides if There is Room for Jesus

24 Days of Christmas Day 12

12 December 

Cornerstone

 Eph. 2:19–20  19 Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints, and of the household of God;

 20 And are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone;

Carol: It Came Upon a Midnight Clear Hymn #207

Story: Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

BY HELEN H. TRUTTON

It was Christmas eve. Stars twinkled down from the heavens almost as a halo over the lighted streets as crowds hurried from store to store in frantic last-minute shopping efforts.

A chilly wind of winter, carrying a slight scent of holly and pine, blew boisterously at times, tilting Nathan Lessen's hat while he walked toward home, arms loaded with gifts for his grandchildren.

He turned the corner panting noticeably, and lumbered up the steps of the second house on the street. The place was dark as usual, only tonight it seemed more so. He dumped the packages down on the porch while he fumbled in his pocket for the keys, and unlocked the door. He switched on the light and looked anxiously at his watch — one hour and a half until plane time.

Nathan's mood changed for the better. He was going to spend one whole week with his daughter Christy and his three grandchildren. He could almost hear Janey saying in her coy way, "Did Santa leave any presents at your house, Grandpa?" Mike and Terry would be all ears when she asked. He whistled a jaunty tune as he hurried to the bedroom. Claire's picture on the dresser smiled up at him when he turned on the light. He smiled back at her. He could now, ten months after her death. He had schooled himself to think about the happy years they had spent together, the long quiet eve­nings they had enjoyed, sometimes talking, sometimes just content being together. He thought, too, about the years he had spent as a young marriage counselor, of Claire's faith in him, and her willingness to face hard­ships. Finally he turned from the photograph, pulled a suitcase from the closet, unwrapped his packages, including a long-haired blond doll for Janey. From another box, he removed a Santa suit, and gently folded it around the doll.

He had barely finished packing when the phone rang. His first inclination was to let it ring in case some client was trying to locate him. Then it occurred to him that no one would call on Christmas Eve. It must be Christy. He picked up the receiver and said, "Hello."

"Mr. Lessen?" he heard a low whisper.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"I — I hate to bother you," the voice seemed far away.

"This is Lessen," he said gruffly. "What — ?"

"Mrs. Donaldson. I'm sorry — but — "

Mrs. Donaldson? Sure, he remembered her; she was a client of several months back, married to a rather irresponsible chap. She was a lovely person. He remem­bered suggesting that her husband needed to see a medical doctor. Why would she be calling him? "I'm sorry, Mrs. Donaldson, I'm in a bit of a hurry; I have a plane to catch."

"I don't know what to do," she sobbed. "My — little girl. She's ill."

"Then call a doctor." He was losing patience.

"Please don't hang up," she pleaded. "You said if ever I needed you —" '

Nathan sighed. He probably had said that. He felt sorry for the family, but he didn't suppose she ever would really call on him.

"What can I do?" he asked, trying to hide his impatience.

"She — Lory — is crying for Seth, her father. He's gone."

"Where?" Nathan asked.

"He's probably just walking. I don't know when he'll be home. Maybe not tonight, and it's Christmas Eve. Lory may not be here for the next one." Her voice was pleading.

"I'll do my best," he said, glancing down at his watch. "But my plane leaves in about an hour."

A talkative cab driver picked him up ten minutes later. They drove up one street, down another, searching, with no results. It was thirty minutes now until plane time. There was nothing left to do but go by and tell Mrs. Donaldson her husband was not on the streets. Then he would leave town and forget other people's troubles.

He almost ran up the stairs of the old apartment house a few minutes later and knocked on the door of Mrs. Donaldson's apartment. A frail blond woman of about twenty-two opened the door. "Did you find him?" she cried.

"No. Why did he leave tonight — on Christmas Eve?"

She wiped a tear from her cheek. "He said he couldn't stand to see her so ill. But she's better now."

"Why isn't she in a hospital?" Nathan asked.

"The doctor said she'd be happier home with us over Christmas. Oh, Mr. Lessen — I — "

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Donaldson," he said half apologetically. "I must catch my plane." And he whirled around to descend the steps. He stopped suddenly when he heard a pitiful cry coming from the bedroom. "Daddy!" He looked at the young mother.

The cry came again. This time Nathan moved up one step, then brushed past the tearful woman and disappeared into the bedroom. Tiptoeing quietly over to the bed, he bent down in the semi-darkened room, and asked tenderly, "How are you, Lory?"

"Daddy, you came," she breathed.

"Of course, baby," he said. "Now you rest."

"Daddy, has Santa come yet?"

Nathan looked at Mrs. Donaldson. She shook her head. 'Not yet," he said. "But he will. What do you want?"

She waited a long time to answer. "A doll with curls like Mommy's," she whispered.

"Well, you just go back to sleep, sweetheart, and Santa will be here."

"Wake me up when he comes," she said, sleepily.

"God bless you," the young mother said as he passed her. "Now you must hurry to your plane."

He looked back a moment at the pale little figure lying on the bed. "I have a Santa suit," he said hoarsely.

"Your plane, you'll miss it."

He was halfway down the first flight of stairs before he stopped to answer. His reddish face, still flushed from the climb up, broke into an agreeable smile. "It's in my bag," he called back to her.

When he returned to the apartment, dressed in his Santa garb, Mrs. Donaldson seemed not to notice him. She was kneeling by the table, her head bowed. He crept reverently past her into the child's room, and whispered softly as he bent over her, "Darling, Santa is here."

To his amazement, the child's eyes flew open. "Where?" she asked feebly.

Nathan leaned down again. "Well, well, young lady," he said in a deep voice. "Have you been a good girl?"

She smiled slightly. "Yes, sir," she whispered.

"Then I have a doll for you," he said. He placed the doll he had purchased for Janey on the bed beside Lory. "You like her?"

The girl's face broke into a happy smile. "She's the most beautiful doll," she cried with new strength. After a moment, she half smiled again. "Can I touch your whiskers, Santa Claus?"

"You barely have time to catch your plane," Mrs. Donaldson spoke softly from the door. "Please — "

Nathan straightened up. If he missed that plane, he'd have to spend the night alone at his apartment — alone on Christmas Eve. He'd never spent Christmas Eve without his family. He couldn't now.

"May I?" the tiny voice asked again.

Nathan looked at Mrs. Donaldson, then back down at Lory. Then he bent down again and said kindly, "Of course you can, Lory." With effort she lifted her hand to his face, "Thank you, Santa," she sighed. "I love you, and my doll."

"You be well by next Christmas, do you hear?" he said, moving toward the door. "I'll have to go now. It's a busy night, you know."

"Can I kiss you good-bye till next time?" she pleaded.

Nathan smiled. "Why, yes, Lory," he said, bending down again over the tiny figure. "Now my dollie," she said.

"Naturally we couldn't forget her," he laughed. Janey had so much, she would never miss the doll he had bought for her. He was glad he had given it to Lory.

"I must go now," he said, hurrying to the door, and to Mrs. Donaldson he said, "May I use your phone? Perhaps the plane is late."

"I'll never forgive myself if I have caused you to miss it."

Nathan smiled at her. "I'm glad you called, Mrs. Donaldson. Service to others was one of the great mes­sages of the One whose birthday we are commemorating. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

He dialed the airport's number and asked if flight 689 had departed. The man who answered hesitated several moments, then asked, "Did you have passage on that flight?”

"Yes, and I was wondering if it might be late."

There was another pause, then the man on the other end of the line said, "Yes, it has departed, but there has been an accident."

"An accident?" Nathan caught his breath.

"We've had no report on how serious it is yet," the man said. "I can't tell you more." He hung up.

Nathan looked about him. Mrs. Donaldson had returned to her child's side. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled under him, his throat felt parched. Finally, he pulled himself up, and slowly made his way toward the stairs. Mrs. Donaldson called after him. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," he said.

"God bless you, Mr. Lessen. Have a happy Christmas with your family," her voice sang out. "You've cheered Lory so much."

He stood outside looking up at the starry sky for a long time. He must hurry home and call Christy. There was a train he could take at midnight.

From Sunshine Magazine 

24 days of Christmas Day 11

11 December 

Advocate

D&C 29:5  5 Lift up your hearts and be glad, for I am in your midst, and am your advocate with the Father; and it is his good will to give you the kingdom.

Christmas Day in the Morning

By Pearl S. Buck

He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.

Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk. "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."

"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."

When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children--they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blindly in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.

And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought him something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too. He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.

"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"

"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come...

The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he'd see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he musn't sleep too sound.

He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match to look each time to look at his old watch -- midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.

At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.

He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn't be waiting or empty, they'd be standing in the milk-house, filled.

"What the--," he could hear his father exclaiming.

He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch.

Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

"Rob!" His father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."

"Aw-right," he said sleepily.

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.

The minutes were endless -- ten, fifteen, he did not know how many -- and he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"Yes, Dad--"

His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.

"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.

"It's for Christmas, Dad!"

He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.

"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing--"

"Oh, Dad, I want you to know -- I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.

"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.

This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.

It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love...

Such a happy, happy Christmas!

Short story 1955

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.