The Giving Tree

There was once a great apple tree and a little boy. They would spend hours and hours together. The boy would play in the tree's branches, sleep at her roots and eat of her apples. And the tree loved the boy.

One day, the boy came to the tree. The tree was delighted and beckoned, "Come and play!" But the boy was no longer a boy; he was now a young man, and he was interested in making a living, but he didn't know how.

"Here," the tree said, "take my apples and sell them." The young man did just that, and the tree was happy.

Years passed, and the tree was lonely without the young man. One day, he returned, and the tree was delighted, but he was now interested in settling down. He wanted to build a house.

"Here," the tree said, "Cut off my branches and build your house." The young man did just that, and the tree was happy.

Years passed, and the tree still missed her friend. One day, the man returned, and the tree was again overjoyed. But the man was now older and tired of life; he wanted to get away from it all.

"Here," the tree offered, "Cut me down. Make for yourself a boat, and sail the world in it." The man did just that, and the tree was happy.

Many years passed, seasons came and went, and the tree was very lonely. She missed her friend, and she often thought about the old days, when they had such fun. Finally, she saw her friend coming over the hill, and she was delighted.

But the boy was now an old man, no longer able to play or make money or to sail away. And he was tired.

"Here, my friend," the tree said, "I still have a pretty good stump left. Won't you sit and rest?" The old man did that, and the tree was happy.

The White Envelope

The Story that Inspired The White Envelope Project

This story was originally published in the December 14, 1982 issue of Woman’s Day magazine. It was the first place winner out of thousands of entries in the magazine’s “My Most Moving Holiday Tradition” contest in which readers were asked to share their favorite holiday tradition and the story behind it. Woman’s Day continues to support this tradition and The White Envelope Project today.
“For the Man Who Hated Christmas”by Nancy W. Gavin

It’s just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas--oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it--overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.

Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler’s ears.

It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That’s when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition--one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.

The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.

As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there.You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.

Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take down the envelope.

Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.
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NOTE: Many of our most common questions relate to this story. Yes, the story is a true story and we're regularly in touch to this day with the family in the article. We are thrilled to have their support, but out of respect for their privacy, we do not release their names or contact information. Sadly, Nancy Gavin (the author) died less than two years after her husband - also of "the dreaded cancer." The Gavin family continues to celebrate the "white envelope" tradition each year.

M n M poems

As you hold these candies in your hand, and turn them,you will see.

The M becomes a W,an E, and then a 3.

They tell the christmas story,it's one I'm sure you know.

It took place in a stable a long, long, time ago.

The E is for the east,where the star shone so bright.

The M is for the manger,where baby jesus slept that night.

The 3 is for the wise men,bearing gifts, they say they came.

W is for worship, hallelujah, praise His name.

So as you eat these candies, or share them with a friend,

remember the meaning of christmas,it's a love story that never ends.

Holiday Survival Kit
Each Color has a different cure
Of this fact I am sure.
When you're grouchy & mean,
I recommend green.
For times when you're down,
The best choice is brown.
Oranges special coating will
Minimize the Bloating.
The ache in your head is
Cured by the red.
To help you be mellow,
Take a dose of the yellow.
If agitated too, eat a
Handful of blue.
If you're whole life is a drag,
Just eat the Whole Bag!!

Christmas Orange

CHRISTMAS ORANGE

Sometimes it is easy to forget the true meaning of Christmas. The busy traditions of the season and the appealing advertisements for material goods can leave the pure and simple truths far, far behind.

Jake was nine years old with tousled brown hair with blue eyes as bright as a heavenly angel. For as long as Jake could remember he had lived within the walls of a poor orphanage. He was just one of ten children supported by what meager contributions the orphan home could obtain in a continuous struggle seeking donations from townsfolk.

There was very little to eat, but at Christmas time there always seemed to be a little more than usual to eat, the orphanage seemed a little warmer, and it was time for a little holiday enjoyment. But more than this, there was the Christmas orange!

Christmas was the only time of year that such a rare treat was provided and it was treasured by each child like no other food admiring it, feeling it, prizing it and slowly enjoying each juicy section. Truly, it was the light of each orphan's Christmas and their best gift of the season. How joyful would be the moment when Jake received his orange!

Unknown to him, Jake had somehow managed to track a small amount of mud on his shoes through the front door of the orphanage, muddying the new carpet. He hadn't even noticed. Now it was too late and there was nothing he could do to avoid punishment. The punishment was swift and unrelenting. Jake would not be allowed his Christmas orange! It was the only gift he would receive from the harsh world he lived in, yet after a year of waiting for his Christmas orange, is was to be denied him.

Tearfully, Jake pleaded that he be forgiven and promised never to track mud into the orphanage again, but to no avail. He felt hopeless and totally rejected. Jake cried into his pillow all that night and spent Christmas Day feeling empty and alone. He felt that the other children didn't want to be with a boy who had been punished with such a cruel punishment. Perhaps they feared he would ruin their only day of happiness. Maybe, he reasoned, the gulf between him and his friends existed because they feared he would ask for a little of their oranges. Jake spent the day upstairs, alone, in the unheated dormitory. Huddled under his only blanket, he read about a family marooned on an island. Jake wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life on an isolated island, if he could only have a real family that cared about him.

Bedtime came, and worst of all, Jake couldn't sleep. How could he say his prayers? How could there be a God in Heaven that would allow a little soul such as his, to suffer so much all by himself? Silently, he sobbed for the future of mankind that God might end the suffering in the world, both for himself and all others like him.

As he climbed back into bed from the cold, hard floor, a soft hand touched Jake's shoulder, startling him momentarily and an object was silently placed in his hands. The giver disappeared into the darkness, leaving Jake with what, he did not immediately know!

Looking closely at it in the dim light, he saw that it looked like an orange! Not a regular orange, smooth and shiny, but a special orange, very special. Inside a patched together peal were the segments of nine other oranges, making one whole orange for Jake! The nine other children in the orphanage had each donated one segment of their own precious oranges to make a whole orange as a gift for Jake.

Sharing what we truly value is the true spirit of Christmas. Our Heavenly Father gave us His beloved Son. May we, like the children in the orphanage, find ways to share His love with others less blessed.

Rewritten from an anonymous source by Laura Martin-Buhler

Nail

It's Christmas time at our houseand we're putting up the tree.

I wish I could find some simple way to remember Christ's gift to me.

Some little sign or symbol to show friends stopping by,

the little babe was born one day but he really came to die.

Some symbol of his nail-pierced hands,the blood he shed for you and me.

What if I hung a simple nailon my shining Christmas tree?

A crimson bow tied round the nail

as his blood flowed down so free,

to save each person from their sin and redeem us for eternity.

I know it was his love for us that held him to the tree,

but when I see this simple nail I know he died for me.

Why Christmas Trees Aren't Perfect

They say that if you creep into an evergreen forest late at night you can hear the trees talking. If you listen very carefully to the whisper of the wind, you can hear the older pines telling the younger ones why they will never be perfect. They will always have a bent branch here, a gap there...

But long, long ago all evergreen trees were perfect. Each one took special pride in branches that sloped smoothly down from pointed top to evenly shaped skirt.
This was especially true in a small kingdom far beyond the Carpathian Mountains in Europe. Here the evergreen trees were the most beautiful of all. For here the sun shone just right, not too hot, not too dim. Here the rain fell just enough to keep the ground moist and soft so no tree went thirsty. And here the snow fell gently day after day to keep every branch fresh and green.
Each year as Christmas approached, the Queen's woodsmen would search the royal evergreen forest for the most perfect, most beautiful tree. The one fortunate enough to be chosen would be cut on the first Saturday of Advent. It would then be carefully carried to the castle and set up in the center of the great hall. There it reigned in honor for all the Christmas celebrations.
Out in the hushed forest every evergreen hoped for this honor. Each tree tried to grow its branches and needles to perfection. All of them strained to have the best form and appearance.
One tree, Small Pine, grew near the edge of the forest and promised to be the most beautiful of all. As a seedling it had listened carefully to the older trees who knew what was best for young saplings. And it had tried so very hard to grow just right. As a result, everything about Small Pine, from its deep sea-green color to the curling tip of its evenly spaced branches, was perfect.
It had, in fact, already overheard jealous whispers from the other trees. But it paid them no mind. Small Pine knew that if one did one's very best, what anyone else said didn't matter.
One cold night, when a bright full moon glittered on the crusty snow, a little gray rabbit came hoping as fast as he could into the grove of evergreens. The rabbit's furry sides heaved in panic. From beyond the hill came the howling of wild dogs in the thrill of the hunt. The bunny, his eyes wide with fright, frantically searched for cover. But the dark, cold trees lifted their branches artfully from the snow and frowned. They did not like this interruption of their quiet evening when growing was at its best.
Faster and faster the rabbit circled as the excited howling of the dogs sounded louder and louder.

And then Small Pine's heart shuddered. When the terrified rabbit ran near, Small Pine dipped its lower branches down, down, down to the snow. And in that instant before the wild dogs broke into the grove, the rabbit slipped under Small Pine's evergreen screen. He huddled safely among the comforting branches while the dogs galloped by and disappeared into the forest.
In the morning the rabbit went home to his burrow, and Small Pine tried to lift its lower branches back up to their proper height. It strained and struggled, but the branches had been pressed down too long through the night. Oh well, Small Pine thought, no matter. Perhaps the woodsmen wouldn't notice a few uneven branches near the ground in a tree so beautiful.

Several days later a terrible blizzard lashed the land. No one remembered ever having so much wind and snow. Villagers slammed their shutters tight while birds and animals huddled in their nests and dens.
A brown mother wren had become lost in the storm. With feathers so wet she could barely fly, she went from one large evergreen to another looking for a shelter. But each tree she approached feared the wren would ruin its perfect shape and clenched its branches tight, like a fist.
Finally, the exhausted wren fluttered toward Small Pine. Once more Small Pine's heart opened and so did its branches. The mother wren nestled on a branch near the top, secure at last. But when the storm ended and the bird had flown away, Small Pine could not move its top branches back into their perfect shape.
In them would be a gap evermore.
Days passed and winter deepened. The packed snow had frozen so hard that the deer in the forest could not reach the tender ground moss, which they ate to survive. Only the older, stronger deer could dig through the icy snow with their hooves.
One little fawn had wandered away from his mother. Now he was starving. He inched into the pine grove and noticed the soft, tender evergreen tips. He tried to nibble on the, but every tree quickly withdrew its needles so the tiny deer teeth couldn't chew them.
Thin and weak, he staggered against Small Pine. Pity filled the tree's heart and it stretched out its soft needles for the starving fawn to eat. But alas, when the deer was strong enough to scamper away, Small Pine's branches looked very ragged.
Small Pine wilted in sorrow. It could hear what the larger, still perfect trees were saying about how bad it looked. A tear of pine gum oozed from the tip of a branch. Small Pine knew it could never hope for the honor of being the Queen's Christmas tree.
Lost in despair, Small Pine did not see the good Queen come with the woodsmen into the forest. It was the first Saturday of Advent, and she had come to choose the finest tree herself because this was a special celebration year in the history of her kingdom.
As the royal sleigh, drawn by two white horses, slowly passed through the forest, her careful eye scanned the evergreens. Each one was hoping to be the royal choice.
When the Queen saw Small Pine, a flush of anger filled her. How could such an ugly tree with so many drooping branches and gaps be allowed in the royal forest? She decided to have a woodsman cut it to throw away and nodded for the sleigh to drive on.
But then...she raised her hand for the sleigh to stop and glanced back at the forlorn little pine.
She noticed the tracks of small animals under its uneven needles. She saw a wren's feather caught in its branches. and, as she studied the gaping hole in its side and its ragged shape, understanding filled her heart.
"This is the one," she said, and pointed to Small Pine. The woodsmen gasped, but they did as the queen directed.
To the astonishment of all the evergreens in the forest, Small Pine was carried away to the great hall in the castle. There it was decorated with shimmering, silver stars and golden angels, which sparkled and flashed in the light of thousands of glowing candles.
On Christmas Day a huge Yule log blazed in the fireplace at the end of the great hall. While orange flames chuckled and crackled, the Queen's family and all the villagers danced and sang together around Small Pine. And everyone who danced and sang around it said that Small Pine was the finest Christmas tree yet. For in looking at its drooping, nibbled branches, they saw the protecting arm of their father or the comforting lap of a mother. and some, like the wise Queen, say the love of Christ expressed on earth.
So if you walk among evergreens today, you will find, along with rabbits, birds, and other happy living things, many trees like Small Pine. You will see a drooping limb, which gives cover, a gap offering a warm resting place, or branches ragged form feeding hungry animals.
For, as have many of us, the trees have learned that living for the sake of others makes us most beautiful in the eyes of God.

Thanks to the troops!

A Different Christmas

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,

I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.

My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,

My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,

Transforming the yard to a winter delight.

The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,

Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,

Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.

In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,

So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,

But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.

Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,

Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,

And I crept to the door just to see who was near.

Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,

A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,

Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.

Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,

Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,"

Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!

Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,

You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,

Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..

To the window that danced with a warm fire's light

Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,

I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."

"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,

That separates you from the darkest of times.

No one had to ask or beg or implore me,

I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December,"

Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers."

My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ',

And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I've not seen my own son in more than a while,

But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.

Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,

The red, white, and blue... an American flag.

I can live through the cold and the being alone

,Away from my family, my house and my home.

I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,

I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

I can carry the weight of killing another,

Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..

Who stand at the front against any and all,

To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."

"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,

Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."

"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,

"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?

It seems all too little for all that you've done,

For being away from your wife and your son."

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,"

Just tell us you love us, and never forget.

To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,

To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

For when we come home, either standing or dead,

To know you remember we fought and we bled.

Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,

That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."

Precious in His Sight

Precious in His Sight

Drifting. Falling. Gently landing
on the coat of one girl standing
on a winter moonlit night
snowflakes dancing in the light.

*
Watching closely as they lay
she stood in awe of what God made.
Each a masterpiece so small
yet the Lord sees each one fall.

*
Delicate and formed with love
a gift to us from God above.
He takes the time to make each one
for His pleasure, for our fun.

*
If He should care enough to make
each and every little flake,
then how precious in His sight
is one girl standing in the night?

Teach the children the true meaning of Christmas

Just a week before christmas I had a visitor. This is how it happened...I had just finished the household chores for the night and was preparing to go to bed, when I heard a noise in the front of the house. I opened the door to the front room and to my surprise, Santa himself stepped out from behind the christmas tree. He placed his finger over his mouth so I would not cry out. "What are you doing?" I started to ask. The words choked up in my throat, and I saw he had tears in his eyes. His usual jolly manner was gone. Gone was the eager, boisterous character we all know. He then answered me with a simple statement. "TEACH THE CHILDREN!" I was puzzled; what did he mean? He anticipated my question, and with one quick movement pulled a miniature toy bag from behind the tree. As I stood puzzled, Santa said, "Teach the children! Teach them the old meaning of Christmas. The meaning that now-a-days Christmas has forgotten."

Santa then reached in his bag and pulled out a FIR TREE and placed it in front of the fire place. "Teach the children that the pure green color of the stately fir tree remains green all year round, representing the everlasting hope of mankind, all the needles point heavenward, making it a symbol of man's thoughts turning toward heaven."

He again reached into his bag and pulled out a brilliant STAR. "Teach the children that the star was the heavenly sign of promises long ago. God promised a Savior for the world, and the star was the sign of fulfillment of His promise."

He then reached into his bag and pulled out a strand of CHRISTMAS LIGHTS. "Teach the children that the lights symbolize that Christ is the light of the world, and when we see this great light we are reminded of Jesus who fills our lives with light."

Once again he reached into his bag and removed a WREATH and placed it on the tree. "Teach the children that the wreath symbolizes the real nature of love. Real love never ceases, like God's love which has no beginning or end."

He then pulled from his bag an ornament of HIMSELF. "Teach the children that I, Santa Clause symbolise the generosity and kindness we feel during the month of December."

He then brought out a cluster of HOLLY BERRIES. "Teach the children that the holly plant represents immortality. It represents the crown of thorns worn by our Saviour. The red holly represents the blood shed by Him."

Next he pulled from his bag a GIFT and said, "Teach the children that God so loved the world that He gave us His only son... thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift. Teach the children that the wise men bowed before the holy babe and presented him with gold, frankincense and myrrh. We should always give gifts in the same spirit of the wise men."

Santa then reached into his bag and pulled out a CANDY CANE and hung it on the tree. "Teach the children that the sugar cane represents the shepherd's crook. The crook on the staff helps to bring back lost sheep to the flock."

He reached in again and pulled out an ANGEL. "Teach the children that it was the angels that announced the glorious news of the savior's birth. The angels sang 'glory to God in the highest, on earth peace and good will toward men."

Suddenly, I heard a soft twinkling sound, and from his bag he pulled out a BELL. "Teach the children that as the lost sheep are found by the sound of the bell, it should ring to guide us to God. The bell symbolises guidance and return. it reminds us that we are all precious in the eyes of God."

Santa looked back and was pleased. I saw the twinkle in his eyes as he said: "Remember, teach the children the true meaning of christmas and do not put me in the center, for I am but an humble servant of the one that is, and I bow down to worship Him, our Lord, our God."

The Carpenter

The Carpenter

An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer-contractor of his plans to leave the house-building business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family. He would miss the paycheck, but he needed to retire. They could get by.

The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career.

When the carpenter finished his work the employer came to inspect the house. He handed the front-door key to the carpenter. "This is your house," he said, "my gift to you."

The carpenter was shocked! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently. So it is with us. We build our lives, a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the building. Then with a shock we realize we have to live in the house we have built. If we could do it over, we'd do it much differently.

But we cannot go back. You are the carpenter.

Each day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. "Life is a do-it-yourself project," someone has said. Your attitudes and the choices you make today, build the "house" you live in tomorrow. Build wisely!

A Box Full of Kisses

A Box Full of Kisses

We often learn the most from our children....

The story goes that sometime ago, a man punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting a roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put under the Christmas tree. Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the next morning and said, "This is for you, Daddy."

He was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found the box was empty. He yelled at her, "Don't you know that when you give someone a present, there's supposed to be something inside it?"

The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh, Daddy it's not empty. I blew kisses into the box. All for you, Daddy."

The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged for her forgiveness.
It is told that the man kept that gold box by his bed for years and whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.

In a very real sense, each of us as humans have been given a gold container filled with unconditional love and kisses from our children, friends, family, or God. There is no more precious possessions anyone can hold.

3 Trees

The Tale of Three Trees

retold by Angela Elwell Hunt

Once upon a mountaintop, three little trees stood and dreamed of what they wanted to become when they grew up. The first little tree looked up at the starts twinkling like diamonds above him.

"I want to hold treasure," he said. "I want to be covered with gold and filled with precious stones. I will be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!"

The second little tree looked out at the small stream trickling by on its way to the ocean. "I want to be a strong sailing ship," he said. "I want to travel mighty waters and carry powerful kings. I will be the strongest ship in the world!"

The third little tree looked down into the valley below where busy men and women worked in a busy town. "I don't want to leave this mountaintop at all," she said. "I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me they will raise their eyes to heaven and think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world!"

Years passed. The rains came, the sun shone, and the little trees grew tall. One day three woodcutters climbed the mountain.

The first woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, "This tree is beautiful. It is perfect for me." With a swoop of his shining axe, the first tree fell. "Now I shall be made into a beautiful chest," thought the first tree. "I shall hold wonderful treasure."

The second woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, "This tree is strong. It is perfect for me." With a swoop of his shining axe, the second tree fell. "Now I shall sail mighty waters," thought the second tree. "I shall be a strong ship fit for kings!"

The third tree felt her heart sink when the last woodcutter looked her way. She stood straight and tall and pointed bravely to heaven. But the woodcutter never even looked up. "Any kind of tree will do for me," he muttered. With a swoop of his shining axe, the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter brought him to a carpenter's shop, but the busy carpenter was not thinking about treasure chests. Instead his work-worn hands fashioned the tree into a feed box for animals. The once beautiful tree was not covered with gold or filled with treasure. He was coated with sawdust and filled with hay for hungry farm animals.

The second tree smiled when the woodcutter took him to a shipyard, but no mighty sailing ships were being made that day. Instead the once-strong tree was hammered and sawed into a simple fishing boat. Too small and too weak to sail an ocean or even a river, he was taken to a little lake. Everyday he brought in loads of dead, smelly fish.

The third tree was confused when the woodcutter cut her into strong beams and left her in a lumberyard. "What happened?" the once tall tree wondered. All I ever wanted to do was stay on the mountaintop and point to God."

Many, many days and nights passed. The three trees nearly forgot their dreams. But one night golden starlight poured over the first tree as a young woman placed her newborn baby in the feedbox. ”I wish I could make a cradle for him," her husband whispered.

The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the smooth and sturdy wood. "This manger is beautiful" she said.

And suddenly the first tree knew he was holding the greatest treasure in the world.

One evening a tired traveler and his friends crowded into the old fishing boat. The traveler fell asleep as the second tree quietly sailed out into the lake. Soon a thrashing storm arose. The little tree shuddered. He knew he did not have the strength to carry so many passengers safely through the wind and rain. The tired man awaken. He stood up, stretched out his hand, and said, "Peace." The storm stopped as quickly as it had begun.

And suddenly the second tree knew he was carrying the king of heaven and earth!

One Friday morning the third tree was startled when her beams were yanked from the forgotten woodpile. She flinched as she was carried through an angry, jeering crowd. She shuddered when soldiers nailed a man's hands to her. She felt ugly and harsh and cruel.

But on Sunday morning, when the sun rose and the earth trembled with joy beneath her, the third tree knew that God's love had changed everything.

He had made the first tree beautiful.

He had made the second tree strong.

And every time people thought of the third tree, they would think of God.

And that was better than being the tallest tree in the world.

Powerful Beyond Measure

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” -Marianne Williamson

The Bread of Life

The Bread Of Life

Just as the Babe of Bethlehem was born, humble and low, then exalted to glory, common, everyday, humble bread has been raised to a lofty station.

Consider that:
Bethlehem, where He was born, means “House of Bread”.

His first temptation in the wilderness was “to turn stones to bread”.

Instead, He turned temptation into teaching: “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth forth from the mouth of God.”

As an example to us, He prayed to the Father in the manner: “Gives us this day our daily bread”.

He fed five thousand disciples with only 5 barley loaves, then seizing the opportunity, declared to them on the following day, “I am the living bread come down from Heaven.”

Embodied in the bread, He broke with His apostles in the memory of His sacrifice and His Father’s gift to the world.

Bread-this highest and lowest food can serve as a meal for insects or a sparrow, as well as a Sabbath feast for priests and prophets.

Bread-this most common food was chosen by the Savior Himself as a remembrance of the most uncommon life.

Bread-a symbol of His birth and death; reminder of His temptations and teaching; a sacred memory of His sacrifice and sufferings.

My Christmas wish is that this small gift and these great thoughts will help you feel the spirit of Christ, and remember Him and all that He has done for us through this beautiful Christmas Season.

Oranges for Christmas

Jake lived in an orphanage with nine other boys. In the winter time it seemed that any extra money went for coal to heat the old building. At Christmas, the building always seemed a little warmer, and the food a little more plentiful, but more than this – Christmas meant an orange. At Christmas each child received an orange. It was the only time of the year such a rare treat was provided, and it was coveted by each boy like no other thing that they ever possessed.

Each boy would save his orange for several days, admiring it, feeling it, loving it and contemplating the moment he would eat it. Some would even save theirs until New Year’s Day or later, much like many of us relish saving our Christmas trees and decorations until New Year’s, just to remind us of the joy of Christmas.

This particular Christmas Day, Jake had broken the orphanage rules by starting a fight. The orphanage mother took Jake’s orange away as punishment for breaking the rules. Jake spent Christmas Day feeling empty and alone. Night time came and Jake could not sleep; silently he sobbed because this year he would not have his orange to savor with the other boys.

A soft hand placed on Jake’s shoulders startled him, and an object was quickly shoved into his hands. The child then disappeared in the dark to leave Jake alone. As he looked closely, Jake discovered that the object placed in his hands was a strange looking orange – nine highly prized oranges that had to be eaten that Christmas night, instead of saved, admired and cherished until a later date. Each boy in the orphanage had given just one orange section so that Jake could enjoy his Christmas.

This year, may the orange remind us all of the unselfish love taught to us by our Savior that we share with each other.

Thanks for the ride

"Life is like an old-time rail journey-delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride."
--President Gordon B. Hinckley

A Grief Observed

One of the great C.S. Lewis books is "A Grief Observed."

"You can't see anything properly while your eyes are blurred with tears.

You can't, in most things, get what you want if you want it too desperately: anyway, you can't get the best out of it. 'Now, let's have a real good talk' reduces everyone to silence, 'I MUST get a good sleep tonight' ushers in hours of wakefulness. Delicious drinks are wasted on really ravenous thirst...And so, perhaps, with God.

I have gradually been coming to feel that the door is no longer shut and bolted. Was it my own frantic need that slammed it in my face? The time when there is nothing at all in your soul except a cry for help may be just the time when God can't give it: you are like the drowning man who can't be helped because he clutches and grabs. Perhaps your own reiterated cries deafen you to the voice you hoped to hear. On the other hand, 'knock and it shall be opened.' But does knocking mean hammering and kicking the door like a maniac?

And there's also 'To him that hath shall be given.' After all, you must have a capacity to receive, or even omnipotence can't give. Perhaps your own passion temporarily destroys the capacity."

Girl in a Whirl

Vickie Gunther of Redlands, California, wrote a hilarious poem, Dr. Seuss style, about how much LDS women try to take on. David B. Marsh used it at Women's Conference, and Vickie has given permission to share it.

The Girl in a Whirl by 'Dr. Sue' (a.k.a. Vickie Gunther)

Look at me, look at me, look at me now!

You could do what I do If you only knew how.

I study the scriptures one hour each day; I bake, I upholster, I scrub, and I pray.

I always keep all the commandments completely; I speak to my little ones gently and sweetly.

I help in their classrooms! I sew all they wear!

I drive them to practice! I cut all their hair!

I memorize names of the General Authorities; I focus on things to be done by priorities.

I play the piano! I bless with my talents! My toilets all sparkle! My checkbooks all balance!

Each week every child gets a one-on-one date; I attend all my meetings (on time! Never late!)

I'm taking a class on the teachings of Paul, But that is not all! Oh, no. That is not all .

I track my bad habits 'til each is abolished; Our t-shirts are ironed! My toenails are polished!

Our family home evenings are always delightful; The lessons I give are both fun and insightful.

I do genealogy faithfully, too. It's easy to do all the things that I do!

I rise each day early, refreshed and awake; I know all the names of each youth in my stake!

I read to my children! I help all my neighbors! I bless the community, too, with my labors.

I exercise and I cook menus gourmet; My visiting teaching is done the first day!

(I also go do it for someone who missed hers. It's the least I can do for my cherished ward sisters.)

I chart resolutions and check off each goal; I seek each "lost lamb" on my Primary roll.

I can home-grown produce each summer and fall. But that is not all! Oh, no. That is not all .

I write in my journal! I sing in the choir! Each day, I write "thank you's" to those I admire.

My sons were all Eagles when they were fourteen! My kids get straight A's! And their bedrooms are clean!

I have a home business to help make some money; I always look beautifully groomed for my honey.

I go to the temple at least once a week; I change the car's tires! I fix the sink's leak!

I grind my own wheat and I bake all our bread; I have all our meals planned out six months ahead.

I make sure I rotate our two-years' supply; My shopping for Christmas is done by July!

These things are not hard; 'tis good if you do them; You can if you try! Just set goals and pursue them!

It's easy to do all the things that I do! If you plan and work smart, you can do them all, too!

It's easy!" she said

and then she dropped dead.

I really lived

I don't want to drive up to the pearly gates in a shiny sports car, wearing beautifully tailored clothes, my hair expertly coiffed, and with long perfectly manicured fingernails.

I want to drive up in a station wagon that has mud on the wheels from taking the kids to scout camp.

I want to be there with a smudge of peanut butter on my shirt from making sandwiches for a sick neighbor's children.

I want to be there with a little dirt under my fingernails from helping to week someone's garden.

I want to be there with children's sticky kisses on my cheeks and the tears of a friend on my shoulder.

I want the Lord to know I was really here and that I really lived.

--Marjorie Pay Hinkley

(picture from here)

Temple Hanger

This hanger stands alone,

beautiful patient, and pure.

It's mission, to hold your temple dress, and as an example to endure.

So as you dress each morning, in preparation for a new day,

let your eyes gaze upon this hanger,

remember to stand tall, and with your hanger...

hang on to "forever."

Pumpkins

A lady was asked by a coworker what it was like to be a Christian.
She replied, "It's like being a pumpkin:
God picks from the patch, brings you in,
and washes all the dirt off you may have gotten from the other pumpkins.
Then he cuts the top off,
and scoops out all the yucky stuff.
He removes the seeds of doubt, hate, greed, etc.
Then He carves you a new smiling face
and puts His light inside of you
to shine for all the world to see."

Building Cathedrals

I'm invisible.

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

Obviously not. No one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible.

Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this? Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite guide to answer, "What number is the Disney Channel?" I'm a car to order, "Right around 5:30, please."

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again.

She's going, she's going, she's gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself as I looked down at my out-of-style dress; it was the only thing I could find that was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a banana clip and I was afraid I could actually smell peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, "I brought you this."

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: "To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees."

In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:

No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, "Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it."

And the workman replied, "Because God sees."

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, "I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become."

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride. I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, "My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table." That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, "You're gonna love it there."

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

Finding Peace Within

Hot Chocolate Cups

Hot Chocolate Cups

A group of alumni, highly established in their careers, got together to visit their old university professor. The conversation soon turned into complaints about stress in work and life.Offering his guests hot chocolate, the professor went to the kitchen and returned with a large pot of hot chocolate and an assortment of cups -porcelain, plastic, glass, crystal, some plain-looking, some expensive and some exquisite - telling them to help themselves to the chocolate.After all the students had a cup of chocolate in hand, the professor said:'If you noticed, all the nice looking expensive cups were taken up, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. While it is but normal for you to want only the best for yourselves, that is the source of your problems and stress. Be assured that the cup itself adds no quality to the chocolate. In most cases, it's just more expensive and in some cases even hides what we drink.''What all of you really wanted was chocolate, not the cup, but you consciously went for the best cups...and then began eyeing each other's cups.''Now consider this: Life is the chocolate, and the jobs, houses, cars, things, money and position in society are the cups.They are just tools to hold and contain life, and the type of cup we have does not define nor change the quality of life we live.Sometimes, by concentrating only on the cup, we fail to enjoy the chocolate God has provided us.''God brews the chocolate, not the cups . . enjoy your chocolate."Being happy doesn't mean everything's perfect, it means you've decided to see beyond the imperfections. Live in peace and peace will live in you. What cup are you?

From Roro