24 Days of Christmas Day 16

16 December 

Only Begotten Son

John 3:16  16 ¶For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

Carol: Stars were Gleaming Children’s Songbook #37

Story: A Beautiful Silver Star

A Beautiful Silver Star

IVAN T. ANDERSON

When the Allied forces made their big push into Germany it was the duty of my military police battalion to take prisoners from the front lines into crudely constructed stockades.

I shall never forget December 24, 1944, and the German prisoner of war who helped to make it memorable for me.

It was a bitter cold night and I found myself on duty helping to guard more than twelve hundred German prisoners.

To say we were a homesick group of men would be an understatement. The fact that it was Christmas Eve only added to our depression.

One of our company, a man from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, stopped blowing on his hands long enough to say:

"What a cold, miserable Christmas! Just because we are stuck out here doesn't mean we can't do something about it. I'm going out and find a tree."

"Forget it!" another M.P. shouted. "There are no trees around here; besides, we haven't anything to decorate with anyway."

Not to be discouraged, Smoky went into the darkness and later returned with a bedraggled specimen.

"You call that thing a tree?" our heckler continued. "In Texas we'd plow that under for a bush."

With a positive attitude, Smoky began to decorate his tree with ornaments made from gum wrappers, candy wrappers, etc.

Several of the men not stationed directly at the stockade began to help our zealous friend with his seemingly impossible task,

As we worked I suddenly heard a voice calling from the stockade: "American, American."

Turning toward the compound I saw a German prisoner with one hand extended through the barbed wire. With his other hand he was motioning toward me.

I quickly threw a shell into the chamber of my rifle and approached him with caution. What I saw in his hand astounded me.

This prisoner had made a beautiful silver star, entirely from gum foil, that was a work of art. He placed the star in my hand and motioned to the top of our tree.

Hoping he spoke some English, I said: "This star has such detail, are you a professional artist?"

By his puzzled expression it was obvious he spoke no more English than I spoke German, so I took his contribution over and placed it atop our tree.

"Well, I'll be!" heckler began again. "I hate to admit this, but that bush is beginning to look like a real tree. Guess I should have kept my mouth shut, eh, Smoky?" (A loud cheer of agreement resounded from all the men.)

As we completed our tree we began singing Christmas carols, and I noticed several of the prisoners joined in on "Silent Night."

The last strains were fading into the night when I heard the same voice call: "American."

This time the prisoner had both hands extended through the barbed wire.

Again I approached with caution, rifle ready, and again I was amazed at what he held in his hands.

This German sculptor had made intricate figures of Joseph, Mary, and the Christ Child. He pointed under our tree as he handed me his detailed work.

I nodded my thanks and carefully placed the delicate figures where he had indicated.

As I placed the tiny figure of the Christ Child, made from a stick base and professionally covered with foil, the light from our fire actually seemed to give it a heavenly glow. I thought of how far we had strayed from the teachings of Jesus and felt tears sting my eyes.

Looking at the stockade, I saw the prisoner was still be the barbed wire, so I hurried back, smiled, and warmly shook his hand.

He returned my smile and the firelight caught the tears that were in his eyes.

Since the close of World War II I have thought of this German prisoner of war numerous times.

Our meeting was brief; we were two ships that passed in the night, and yet I feel this man would agree that our only hope for a lasting world peace would be a return to the teachings of the tiny figure he so beautifully molded that cold December night. One thing is certain: if we love the Lord we also have a genuine concern for all mankind—the two are synonymous.

Deseret News, December 24, 1970, p.1

24 Days of Christmas Day 14

14 December 

Comforter

Bible Dictionary—Comforter

Carol: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

Story: Pattern of Love

Pattern of Love

Jack Smith

“I didn’t question Timmy, age nine, or his seven-year-old brother, Billy, about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and forth between them as we visited each store.

“Every year at Christmastime, our Service Club takes the children from poor families in our town on a personally conducted shopping tour. I was assigned Timmy and Billy, whose father was out of work. After giving them the allotted $4.00 each, we began our trip. At different stores I made suggestions, but always their answer was a solemn shake of the head, no. Finally, I asked, ‘Where would you suggest we look?’

“‘Could we go to a shoe store, Sir?’ answered Timmy. ‘We’d like a pair of shoes for our Daddy so he can go to work.’

“In the shoe store the clerk asked what the boys wanted. Out came the brown paper. ‘We want a pair of work shoes to fit this foot,’ they said. Billy explained that it was a pattern of their Daddy’s foot. They had drawn it while he was asleep in a chair.

“The clerk held the paper against a measuring stick, then walked away. Soon, he came with an open box. ‘Will these do?’ he asked. Timmy and Billy handled the shoes with great eagerness. ‘How much do they cost?’ asked Billy. Then Timmy saw the price on the box. ‘They’re $16.95,’ he said in dismay. ‘We only have $8.00.’

“I looked at the clerk and he cleared his throat. ‘That’s the regular price,’ he said, ‘but they’re on sale; $3.98, today only.’ Then, with shoes happily in hand the boys bought gifts for their mother and two little sisters. Not once did they think of themselves.

“The day after Christmas the boys’ father stopped me on the street. The new shoes were on his feet, gratitude was in his eyes. ‘I just thank Jesus for people who care,’ he said. ‘And I thank Jesus for your two sons,’ I replied. ‘They really taught me more about Christmas in one evening than I had learned in a lifetime.’” 

Retold by Pres Faust Ensign December 1999

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 9

9 December 

Messenger of the Covenant
 Mal. 3:1  1 Behold, I will send my messenger, and he shall prepare the way before me: and the Lord, whom ye seek, shall suddenly come to his temple, even the messenger of the covenant, whom ye delight in: behold, he shall come, saith the Lord of hosts.

Carol: O Come All Ye Faithful Hymn #202

Story: Trouble at the Inn

Trouble at the Inn

Dina Donohue

For years now whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling. Wally's performance in one annual production of the nativity play has slipped into the realm of legend. But the old-timers who were in the audience that night never tire of recalling exactly what hap­pened.

Wally was nine that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty in keeping up. He was big and clumsy, slow in movement and mind. Still, Wally was well-liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he, though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when Wally would ask to play ball with them or any game, for that matter, in which winning was important.

Most often they'd find a way to keep him out, but Wally would hang around anyway—not sulking, just hoping. He was always a helpful boy, a willing and smiling one, and the natural protector, paradoxically, of the underdog. If the older boys chased the younger ones away, it would always be Wally who'd say, "Can't they stay? They're no bother."

Wally fancied the idea of being a shepherd with a flute in the Christmas pageant that year, but the play's director, Miss Lambard, assigned him to a more important role. After all, she reasoned, the innkeeper did not have too many lines, and Wally's size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful.

So it happened that the usual large, partisan audience gath­ered for the town's yearly extravaganza of crooks and creches, of beards, crowns, halos, and a whole stageful of squeaky voices. No one on stage or off was more caught up in the magic of the night than Wallace Purling. They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that from time to time Miss Lambard had to make sure he did not wander onstage before his cue.

Then came the time when Joseph appeared, slowly, ten­derly guiding Mary to the door of the inn. Joseph knocked hard on the wooden door set into the painted backdrop. Wally the innkeeper was there, waiting.

"What do you want?" Wally said, swinging the door open with a brusque gesture.

"We seek lodging."

"Seek it elsewhere." Wally looked straight ahead but spoke vigorously. "The inn is filled."

"Sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary."

"There is no room in this inn for you." Wally looked prop­erly stern.

"Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and needs a place to rest. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired."

Now for the first time, the innkeeper relaxed his stiff stance and looked down at Mary. With that, there was a long pause, long enough to make the audience a bit tense with embarrass­ment.

"No! Begone!" the prompter whispered from the wings.

"No!" Wally repeated automatically. "Begone!"

Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary, and Mary laid her head upon her husband's shoulder, and the two of them started to move away. The innkeeper did not return inside the inn, however. Wally stood there in the doorway watching the for­lorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakably with tears.

And suddenly this Christmas pageant became different from all others.

"Don't go, Joseph," Wally called out. "Bring Mary back," And Wallace Purling's face grew into a bright smile. "You can have my room"

Some people in town thought that the pageant had been ruined. Yet there were others—many, many others—who con­sidered it the most Christmas of all Christmas pageants they had ever seen.

Guideposts Magazine, copyright 1966 

24 Days of Christmas Day 5

5 December

Word

 John 1:heading, 1–3  1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

 2 The same was in the beginning with God.

 3 All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made.

 Carol: It Came Upon a Midnight Clear Hymn #207

Story: Christmas Loaves and Fishes

Christmas Loaves and Fishes

By Raynier Maharaj Toronto, Canada

On Christmas Eve in homes everywhere there is quiet excitement. The festive feeling and the warmth of having family members near brings to mind a Christmas tale I love to relate each year. It's a true story, even though it might sound unbelievable. And it's proof that miracles do happen.

A long time ago there was a group of young people who decided to spread some Christmas cheer. They had discovered that there were several children who would be spending the festive holiday in a community hospital nearby. So one of the friends dressed as Santa Claus, they bought nice presents, wrapped them, and armed with guitars and sweet voices, they dropped in unexpectedly at the hospital on Christmas Eve.

The children were overjoyed at seeing Santa, and by the time the group was finished handing out presents and singing Christmas carols, there were tears in everyone's eyes. From then on, it was decided they would play Santa every year.

The following Christmas Eve, oth­er patients at the hospital were included in the rounds, and by the third year the celebration was expanded to embrace some of the poor children in the neighborhood.

On the fourth Christmas Eve, how­ever, after all the rounds were made, Santa Claus looked into his bag and discovered there were a few extra toys left. So the friends mulled it over, trying to figure out what to do with them. Somebody mentioned that there were a few squatters' shacks nearby in which a couple of desperately poor families lived.

So the group decided to go there, thinking that there were perhaps three families at most. But as they drove over the crest of the hill into this lonely area—it was around midnight now—the shocked group saw a large number of people standing at the side of the street.

Much to their surprise, they were children— more than 30 of them. Behind them were not three shacks but rows and rows of shabby squatters' dwellings. As the cars drew to a stop, the children came running up, shouting with joy. It turned out they had been waiting patiently all night for Santa Claus. Some­body—no one could remember who—had told them he was coming, although our Santa had decided to go there only moments before.

Everyone was stunned, except for Santa. He was in a panic. He knew he didn't have enough toys for all these kids. Eventually, however, not wanting to disappoint the children, he decided to give whatever toys he had only to the youngest, smallest children. When the presents ran out, he'd just have to explain to the bigger kids what had happened.

So moments later he found himself perched on top of a car's hood as these 30 or more sparkling clean children, dressed in their best clothes, lined up in order of height, with the smallest first, for their moment with him. As each anxious child approached, Santa dipped into his bag, his heart heavy with dread, hoping to find at least one more toy. And by some miracle, he found one each time he dipped. And as the last of the children received a pres­ent, Santa looked into the now deflated bag. It was empty—empty as it should have been 24 children ago.

With a sigh of relief, he let out a hearty "ho-ho-ho" and bade the kids farewell. But as he was about to enter one of the cars (the reindeer, apparently, had the day off), he heard a child scream: "Santa! Santa! Wait!" And out of the bushes rushed two little children, a boy and a girl. They had been asleep.

Santa's heart sank. This time he knew for sure he had no more toys. The bag was empty. He had seen it himself. But as the out-of-breath kids approached, he summoned up some extra courage and dipped into the bag one more time. And—lo and behold— there were indeed two more presents in the bag.

That group of friends, now all grown adults, still talk about this miracle on Christmas morning. They still have no explanation for it, other than the fact that it happened. How do I know so much about this? Well, I was the one playing Santa.

Family Circle   12/16/97

24 Day of Christmas day 3

3 December 

Good Shepherd

 John 10:14–15, 17  14 I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine.

 15 As the Father knoweth me, even so know I the Father: and I lay down my life for the sheep.

 17 Therefore doth my Father love me, because I lay down my life, that I might take it again.

Carol: O Little town of Bethlehem Hymn #208

Story: I was Grateful Just to be Alive

I was Grateful Just to be Alive

Royal R.Meservy

It was the Sunday before Christmas, and our family was discussing memorable Christmases. After some discussions among the children, my eleven-year-old son Greg asked, "Dad, which Christmas do you remember best? Will you tell us about it?"

That was a big order, but after a few minutes' hesitation, I proceeded to tell them this experience:

The Christmas that stands out most in my mind was that of 1944, during World War II. We had fought through the Battle of the Ardennes and were then sent to the Siegfried Line to replace the Second Division. We had been there a week when the German offensive known as the Belgian Bulge began. We were right on the nose of that thrust and were commanded to hold at all costs. For two and a half days we fought and held. But finally, on December 19, 1944, we were forced to surrender.

After we were searched, we stood out in a barnyard all night. The next morning we began a march of thirty-eight miles. There was no food, except part of a raw sugar beet that I dashed into a field to get as we marched along.

The following morning, after sleeping on the cold, damp ground, we moved slowly forward. We arrived at a big building about noon and were given two packages of German emergency ration crackers and a ride to the Geroldstein, Germany, railway station, where we slept on the hard cement. On December 21, we were loaded aboard a train of boxcars, with sixty-five men to each car. The sliding doors on either side of the car were wired shut from the outside. There was no food or water.

December 23, 1944, found us outside of Diez, still cramped up in the boxcar, hungry and thirsty. It was on this memorable afternoon that I learned the true meaning of Christmas.

Just before dark American bombers flew overhead, and bombs fell so close that one boxcar door was ripped entirely off. As the bombing continued, someone asked, "Has anybody got a Bible?" I reached into my pocket and handed him my pocket edi­tion of the New Testament. He turned to the second chapter of Saint Luke and read:

"And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

"And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

"And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

"And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger.

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." (Luke 2:8-14.)

I had heard that scripture read year after year, but never be­fore or since with the emotion and feeling with which it was read in that boxcar.

Peace came over us. He handed the Bible back to me, and we all sat quietly, each deep in his own thoughts.

The next day, after eighty-eight hours without water, we were given water and later some food. Christmas of 1944 is the one I remember best because I was grateful just to be alive.

Improvement Era. December 1970, p. 6. Dr. Royal R. Meservy, a native of Wilford Fremont County, Idaho, has served two full-time missions for the Church. He and his wife have seven children; the family resides in Fullerton, California, where he is a counselor at Fullerton College.

24 Days of Christmas Day 1

1 December 

Mediator

 1 Tim. 2:5  5 For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus;

Story: The Auction

THE AUCTION

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art. When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son. About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you and your love for art. The young man held out his package. "I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this." The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift."

The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected. The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection. On the platform sat the painting of the son. "Who will bid for this picture?" There was silence. Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, "We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one."

But the auctioneer persisted. "Will someone bid for this painting? Who will start the bidding? $100, $200" Another voice shouted angrily, "We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Goghs, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids." But still the auctioneer continued. "The son! The son! Who'll take the son?" Finally a voice came from the back of the room. It was the long-time gardener of the man and his son. "I'll give you $10 for the painting." Being a poor man, it was all he could afford. "We have $10, who will bid $20?" "Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters." "$10 is the bid, won't someone bid $20?" The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collection. The auctioneer pounded the gavel. "Going once, twice, SOLD for $IO!" A man sitting in the second row shouted, "Now let's get on with the collection!" The auctioneer laid down his gavel. "I'm sorry, the auction is over." What about the paintings?" "I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was
told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only
the painting of the son would be auctioned. The man who took the son gets everything."

God gave his son 2000 years ago to die on a cruel cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is, "The Son, the Son, who'll take the Son?" Because you see, whoever takes the Son, gets everything. 

Friemel