Merry December 13th

1 Nephi 11:20-24 And I looked and beheld the virgin again, bearing a child in her arms. And the angel said unto me: Behold the Lamb of God, yea, even the Son of the Eternal Father! And I looked, and I beheld the Son of God going forth among the children of men; and I saw many fall down at his feet and worship him.

Carol: What Child Is this?

Unexpected Christmas

Marguerite Nixon

We were well over half way tour farm in East Texas when the storm broke. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed and a tree fell with a great ripping noise. When the rain poured in such a flood that we could not see the road, my husband drove off on to what seemed to be a bit of clearing deep in the piney woods.

As we waited I sensed we would not get to the farm that night to celebrate Christmas Eve with our family. We were sitting there, miserable and dejected, when I heard a knocking on my window. A man with a lantern stood there beckoning us to follow him. My husband and I splashed after him up the path to his house.

A woman with a lamp in her hand stood in the doorway of an old house; a boy of twelve and a little girl stood beside her. We went in soaked and dripping, and the family moved aside in order that we might have the warmth of the fire. With the volubility of city people, my husband and I began to talk, explaining our plans. And with the quietness of people who live in the silence of the woods, they listened.

“The bridge on Caney Creek is out. You are welcome to spend the night with us,” the man said. And, though we told them we thought it was an imposition, especially on Christmas Eve, they insisted. After we had visited a while longer, the man got up and took the Bible from his mantle. “It’s our custom to read the story from St. Luke on Christmas Eve, “he said, and without another wood began:

“And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid Him in a manger…”

The children sat up eagerly, their eyes bright in anticipation, while their father read on: “and there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night.” I looked at his strong face. He could have been one of those shepherds.

When he finished reading and closed the Bible, the little children knelt by their chairs. The mother and father were kneeling, and without any conscious will of my own I found myself joining them. Then I saw my husband, without any embarrassment at all, kneel also.

When we arose after the prayer, I looked around the room. There were no brightly wrapped packages or cards, only a small, unadorned holly tree on the mantle. Yet the Spirit of Christmas was never more real to me.

The little boy broke the silence. “we always feed the cattle at 12 o’clock on Christmas Eve. Come with us.”

When we returned to the house there was an air of festivity and the servings of juice and fruitcake. Later, we bedded down on a mattress made of corn shucks. As I turned into a comfortable position, they rustled under me and sent up a faint fragrance exactly like that in the barn. My heart said, “You are sleeping in the stable like the Christ child did.”

As I drifted into a profound sleep, I knew that the light coming through the old pine shutters was the Star shining on the quiet house.

The family all walked down the path to the car with us the next morning. I was so filled with the Spirit of Christmas they had given me that I could find no words. Suddenly I thought of the gifts I had in the back seat of our car for our family.

I began to hand them out. My husband’s gray woolen socks went to the man. The red sweater I had brought for my sister went to the mother. I gave away two boxes of candy, the white mittens and the leather gloves while my husband nodded approval.

And when I was breathless from reaching in and out of the car and the family stood there loaded with the gaiety of Christmas packages, the mother spoke for all of them, “We thank you,” she said simply. And then she said, “Wait.”

She hurried up the path to the house and came back with a quilt folded across her arms. It was beautifully handmade; the pattern was the Star of Bethlehem. I looked up at the tall beautiful pines because my throat hurt, my eyes were filling with tears, and I could not speak. It was indeed Christmas.

Every Christmas Eve since then, I sleep under the quilt, the Star of Bethlehem, and in memory I visit the stable and smell again the corn shucks, and the meaning of Christmas abides with me once more.