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Sharing Christmas (Part 1)
All of us have favorite Christmas memories, but our experiences are as varied as the ornaments on the tree. Whether selflessly giving or graciously receiving, or celebrating Christmas in less-than-ideal circumstances, the authors of the following stories poignantly capture the true spirit of the season. In the Spirit of Christmas By Hannelore Janke This was not the time to be sad. Next month I’d be turning twelve; it was time to give up dolls anyway. As I carefully folded the doll clothes I had sewn for Lilo, I realized that we had hardly played together these past six months; maybe we wouldn’t miss each other too much, especially since she was going to get a new mom for Christmas. Lilo was neither the prettiest nor the biggest of my dolls. She didn’t even have real hair. But she was the only doll that had survived the war with me. In fact, it was her size, about ten inches, and her plainness that had saved her life. When the approaching Russian troops had forced us to flee our home in West Prussia, in January of 1945, we could only take a few belongings, such as a change of clothing. It still surprises me that Mom let me stuff Lilo into the little space I had left on top of my pack. We stayed in a refugee camp only four days, and then the five of us—Mom, my two younger brothers, and Lilo and I—were given a room in a spacious, old house with a family that had a son my age, Joachim. His cousins from Berlin, Dieter and Hans, who had lost their home to the air raids, were also living there, and the four of us became the best of friends. Having boys as buddies was a new experience for me. Where I had played mostly with dolls before, I now played cops and robbers. We occupied our time with cards and board games, always looking for new hideouts somewhere in the lush yard or the spacious attic. Was it any wonder that Lilo spent most of the summer by herself? It wasn’t all fun and games, though. Scouting for food was the main occupation for Mom and me during harvest time. The food we were able to buy with our ration cards was barely enough for one meal a day. In order to survive, we had to spend most of our time in the fields and forests that surrounded our new hometown. We gathered mushrooms and picked berries and rose hips; we helped a nearby farmer harvest potatoes and sugar beets in exchange for food; we gleaned wheat by hand and took the wheat berries to the ancient windmill up on the hill to trade for flour. We made jam from the rose hips and molasses from the sugar beets, and put the mushrooms on strings to hang up for drying. But no matter how hard we worked to survive and to prepare for the long winter ahead, what we were able to stash away lasted only a few months. Dad, who had been drafted to serve in the German Army, got captured at the end of the war and was still in prison camp. He couldn’t provide for us, and my two brothers were only four and six years old. So by the time Christmas rolled around, we were hungry again. That’s when I decided to trade Lilo for food. What a sad and happy day. I had to say goodbye to Lilo, and I received two loaves of bread. It was a good deal, because on the Black Market a loaf of bread cost thirty times more than on ration cards. Now I could make plans for Christmas. One loaf was for Mom and the boys. Because I was in the middle of a growing spurt and would get so hungry that my knees became weak and shaky, Mom wanted me to keep the other loaf. How rich I felt having my own food to eat and to share! Of course, I wanted to share it also with my buddies. It was the only Christmas present I had for them. I proudly cut three slices of my heavy, wholegrain bread. Wrapping paper was not available in any form, so I placed the slices on a plate I had decorated with small pine boughs. Mom gave me a little of our last rose-hip jam. I put a dab of it on each piece. Now I was ready for Christmas Eve, which was the high point of a German Christmas. I was so happy to have a surprise for my friends. I had no idea that they would also have a surprise for me. I had not expected any presents; having come through the war alive was the greatest gift. But on Christmas Eve I received a tray decorated with small pine boughs and loaded with treasures. Of all the Christmas gifts I have received since then, in over forty years, the simple presents on that tray moved me the most: a pencil stub, a sheet of used carbon paper, half a scratch pad, and a book from Joachim’s library. The memory of that Christmas Eve still fills me with the joy that comes from caring and sharing. Each one of us shared our last precious possessions. Because of that, the Christmas of 1945 is the one I remember best. The Least of These By Richard M. Siddoway We married in August and settled into a small apartment near the university where both of us went to school. We each had a year until graduation and scrimped and struggled through the autumn quarter. Now Christmas was approaching and we had little money between us to squander on Christmas gifts. We walked through the department stores of Salt Lake arm in arm with the confidence of better days ahead. My bride paused before a winter coat, caressing it with her eyes and fingers. Together we looked at the price tag—seventy-five dollars. Tuition for a quarter was eighty-five dollars. We both knew the coat was out of the question. Her old coat, seam-split and stained, would have to do for another year. We agreed to spend no more than five dollars apiece in shopping for each other. While my wife drove the car to do her shopping, I walked the half dozen blocks to the Grand Central drugstore to see how far I could stretch five dollars. After considerable searching, I selected a paperback novel my wife had commented about and a small box of candy. Together they came to $4.75. As I approached the checkout stand, I was met with a long line of shoppers, each trying to pay as quickly as possible and get on with the bustle of the season. No one was smiling. I waited perhaps a half an hour, and only three people were ahead of me in the line when I became aware that the line had grounded to a halt. The clerk was having an animated discussion with an elderly customer. “Sir,” barked the clerk, “the price of insulin has gone up. I’m sorry, but we have no control over that. You need four more dollars.” “But it has been the same price ever since my wife started taking it. I have no more money. She needs the medication.” The man’s neck was turning red and he was obviously uncomfortable with the situation. “I must have the insulin. I must.” The man standing behind him put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on, pop, you’re holding up the line.” The lady in front of me grew more agitated. The dozen or so people behind me began craning their necks to see what was holding up the line. Suddenly I stepped out of line, reached into my pocket, withdrew my wallet, and handed five dollars to the old man. “Merry Christmas,” I said. He hesitated a moment, then his blue eyes grew moist as he took the money. “God bless you, my son.” I turned and walked back into the store aisles. I counted the money I had remaining in my wallet—four dollars. I replaced the box of candy and got back in line to pay for the novel. Snow was falling in soft white feathery flakes as I walked up the hill toward our apartment. I turned in our driveway and saw an envelope stuck in our screen door. I removed it and found written on the front of the envelope simply, “Matthew 25:40.” I opened the door, stepped inside, and turned on the light. I ripped open the end of the envelope and withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. There was no other message. It was only after I had purchased the winter coat for my wife that I took time to get out my Bible and read the scripture written on the envelope: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” To this day I have no idea who blessed our lives that Christmas. Excerpted from Sharing Christmas; Deseret Book
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Today's date: March 21, 2010
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