Ross gave this talk in Church last week. It was a 2 hankie talk (at least for Janice). I'd heard the Viet Nam letter from Kent referenced, but never heard the whole story.
I am kind of a grinch when it comes to things like putting up Christmas lights and decorating our house. In spite of that Christmas is my favorite time of year. I think that it is the one holiday that has a “season”. It seems that for several weeks of the year there is a special feeling that pervades our homes, our places of work and the stores where we shop. Part of that feeling can be attributed to the decorations and the music associated with this time of the year. But there is more than just the music and the decorations I think there is a special feeling most places that we go. I attribute this special feeling that is associated with Christmas as an abundance of the light of Christ being poured out upon the world. We are taught that all people are blessed with the light of Christ. It is the light of Christ that allows them to discern good from evil and to feel the spirit of the Holy Ghost even when they have not been given the gift of the Holy Ghost. I believe that at this time of year people are more focused on Christ than at any other time of the year and even the sometimes fleeting thoughts of Christ motivate us to think of others and to act a little bit differently.
Today I want to talk about two aspects of the Christmas season: First, the gifts that our Heavenly father has given us; and, Second, what we are expected to do as a result of receiving those gifts.
Many years ago Pearl Buck wrote a short story some parts of this story I am sure you will remember but there are other parts you may not have heard before.
Christmas Day in the Morning
By Pearl S. Buck
He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.
Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.
"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."
"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk. "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."
"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."
When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children--they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.
Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blindly in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.
And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought him something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.
He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had semed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.
"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"
"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."
Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come...
The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he'd see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he musn't sleep too sound.
He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match to look each time to look at his old watch -- midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.
At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.
He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn't be waiting or empty, they'd be standing in the milk-house, filled.
"What the--," he could hear his father exclaiming.
He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.
The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch.
Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.
"Rob!" His father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."
"Aw-right," he said sleepily.
The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.
The minutes were endless -- ten, fifteen, he did not know how many -- and he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.
"Rob!"
"Yes, Dad--"
His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.
"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.
"It's for Christmas, Dad!"
He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.
"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing--"
"Oh, Dad, I want you to know -- I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.
He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.
"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."
They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.
This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.
It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love...
Such a happy, happy Christmas!
Ross words:
What I like most about this story is the fact that Rob’s Father’s love transformed Rob. Rob’s lessons of love motivated him to be better and share more love with his wife. This is the first message I get out of Christmas – our Heavenly Father’s love can transform us. Knowing and understanding his love for us can help us love one another because we are all spirit children of our Heavenly Father. Our Heavenly Father’s love is demonstrated by the fact that he sent his son into the world to redeem us from death and atone for our sins in order that we can return to his presence and receive all that he has. These gifts can provide meaning and purpose to our lives. These gifts from our Heavenly Father given in love teach us how to love.
In 1964 and 1965 the Viet Nam war was nearing it peak. My older brother had volunteered for the Marine Corps in order to avoid being drafted into the army. He was 18 years old when he joined and I was in fifth grade between 10 and 11years old. When my brother came home on leave after basic training I thought he was about the toughest guy in the world. He was ready to go to Viet Nam and fight and I was wished I could be as skilled in handling, knives and guns and in hand to hand combat as I believed he was. In October of that year we received a letter from my big tough brother that made me realize maybe war wasn’t so glamorous and perhaps there was no reason for me to be jealous of him. In his letter he addressed each member of the family and compared our situation to his. Part of that letter written by the hard core marine reads as follows:
Hello and greetings
Stop here and now and before you read any farther I want you to remember how each one of you feel after you, Mr. Hansen have come in from working in your garden and are having a nice cool drink on the patio. Mrs. Hansen you may recall the feeling you have as you sit before a fire with all the lights off except for those of your Christmas tree. Kathy remember the last time you took a hot bath and then turned on my stereo and then crawled into my bed, which had clean sheets on it. Marsha think back to the last big test you had, and you did so well on this test that you pulled another "A" for the report card. Ross reflect back to the last time you went skiing and after a great day on the slopes you came home and took a hot bath and then sat down in front of the T.V. Alisa remember last winter you got up early in the morning and how cold the house was but you always found a nice warm heating vent to curl up in front of. All these situations have one thing in common - a sense of well being a sense of comfort and security. Now let us look at another picture. This picture is dark and cool; add to this picture barbed wire about 50 feet in front of you and 5 ft. high and 3 feet thick. You view this scenery from a hole which measures 5'-5'-5' and last add 18" of water every 24 hr. this water will not come in the form of a river or creek, instead this water will be coming straight down in the form of rain. The scenes at the beginning of the letter and the scene above provide the needed contrast to keep me awake for 3 hrs. every night as I watch for the attack that will never come. Yes there isn't any bed instead I have a wet blanket, a wet poncho, a wet rain coat, and a wet rubber lady (which has a tendancy to float when the water get 5" deep). The 16th of Oct. is a day that will always be impressed on my brain because this is the last time I was dry. My health is good I had dysentery but I bit it - I'm sure the AMA wouldn't approve of how I did it but it worked. Now all I have left is a little bit of jungle rot. Today is a great day I got you package and letter, both were good. I'm sorry I won't be able to send any present for birthday etc. but as it is everything I have I need to keep alive. So Alisa have a happy Birthday. Well it is about time for us to be mortared - we get hit every day at about 4:00 - so keep smiling and remember happiness is dry cloths and a warm blanket.
Kent
P.S.
You may take you pick of things to send in the next package: juices, wet stones, pocket watch (water proof) comic books, novels, text books, comic books, candy, cookies more (I only got 2 this time) and Kool-Aid (pre-sweetened) and Text books.
After receiving that letter our family became committed to providing our brother the best Christmas we could. The only problem was that whatever we sent had to fit within a coffee can. Coffee cans were essential for two reasons. They had plastic lids which kept the moisture out and it was our understanding that when the helicopters carrying the mail could not land the mail was pushed out of the helicopter to fall to the ground, which at times was some distance, and the cans helped protect whatever was inside. I had two assignments. My parents told me that they were going to buy my brother a new pair of skis when he returned and my job was to determine what skis those should be and to find a picture of them in the ski magazines that I read. My other assignment was to gather coffee cans from the three Catholic families in our neighborhood whose children I played with and where I spent plenty of time. I performed my assignments well and gathered lots of coffee cans and selected a pair of the best metal skis available at that time (Head 360s). I still remember packing the coffee cans with cookies, paperback novels a revised poem from one of my sisters and the picture of the skis. I suspect that the reason this is such a significant memory is because it may have represented the first time I really was focused on doing something for someone else. It also may have been significant because I was just starting to realize that I was fortunate to be where I was and life was maybe just a little more complicated than I thought.
In reality my family could never give my brother the things he wanted most for Christmas. The cookies, the promised skis and the paperback novels were nothing compared to the comfort and safety that he desired. Sometimes when I think of all the blessings I have received I think there is nothing I can do to repay our Heavenly Father for what he has given to me. But that should not prevent me or any of us from making an effort and doing our best to give our Heavenly Father what he asks of us.
In 3 Nephi 19-20 Christ is visiting the people of America and he tells them what is expected of us –a broken Heart and a contrite spirit - listen….
I apologize if the message got lost in the stories. This is what I wanted to share with you today as a message for Christmas - as we contemplate the birth of our Savior let us remember what a wonderful gift our Heavenly father has given to us and use the remembrance of that gift to motivate us to transform us and to motivate us to do good to others. In remembrance of that gift let us also do our best to give to our Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ one thing that they have asked of us a broken heart and a contrite spirit.
As we prepare to celebrate Christmas this week I would like you to leave you with these words written by the poet Christina Rossetti from the poem In the Bleak Midwinter
In The Bleak Midwinter
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Our God, heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, Whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, Whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.
Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.
What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do (know) my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: (I can) give my heart.
I pray that all of us can do our part this Christmas and give our hearts to Jesus Christ who has done so much for us.
The version sung by James Taylor changes some of the words and I like the changes better so I put them in parantheses.
