A Small, Snow-Covered Tree - Darrell Smart

A Small Snow-Covered Tree - Darrell Smart 

One day, shortly before Christmas, our third child and first son, Bay, was born. As I said good-bye that evening to my exhausted but joyful wife and left the hospital, the warmth and joy that accompanied the birth of my son overwhelmed the cold chill of that clear December night.

The following December we celebrated the first birthday of our dark-eyed, dark-haired son. The day after Christmas, during an evening of games at the home of my in-laws, our revelry was interrupted by an awful shriek from my mother-in-law: “He’s not breathing!” She had gone to check on Bay, who had been sleeping on her bed, and discovered his cold, lifeless body. We immediately rushed our son to the hospital, attempting CPR on the way. We were grief-stricken to learn that nothing could be done to save his life. He had died from sudden infant death syndrome.

Since then, Christmas has been filled with a much deeper meaning for our family. Each year on Christmas Eve when we take down our other children’s stockings to fill them, one solitary stocking is left on the fireplace mantle. Throughout the remainder of the holiday the stocking serves as a reminder of Bay.

Each year, around the time of Bay’s birthday, my wife and I drive to the cemetery where he is buried. At each visit we find that someone else has arrived before us and placed something on our son’s grave: one year it was delicate, small flowers; the next year, a stuffed bear; the next, a little Christmas tree decorated with miniature ornaments. We have no idea who is responsible; the gifts, which touch us deeply, are never accompanied by a note or card.

When I hinted to my mother-in-law that I knew her secret, she denied responsibility. The following year while she and my father-in-law were serving a Church mission abroad, we again found that someone had placed a gift on our son’s grave. Even after inquiring with other family members and friends, we were unable to solve the mystery.

Ten years after our son’s death, a series of snowstorms prevented us from traveling short distances. As a result, our annual visit to our son’s grave site was delayed until several days after Christmas. When we finally made it, we saw a small, decorated Christmas tree, mostly buried in the snow, standing bravely at the head of Bay’s small grave. The effort it must have taken for someone to get to the cemetery through the heavy snowfall overwhelmed us. Tears streamed down our faces as we realized that someone still shared our grief and loss.

After that, we were more resolved than ever to discover the identity of our benefactor and thank him or her for showing us such compassion. But as we reflected more, we realized that whoever was doing these acts of kindness did not want to be identified. We decided to allow our friend to remain anonymous. We replaced our need to thank our friend with a desire to simply live better.

It is now harder for us to speak ill of or criticize any of our friends or family members, because any one of them may be our anonymous friend.

Often while doing service, my wife and I pause to examine our hearts: are we doing good things to be seen by others or for the pure love of Christ and of our fellowmen?

For us, charity—humble and never seeking its own—is symbolized by a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, half-buried in snow, resting in a quiet cemetery.

A Rifle for Christmas - Rian B. Anderson

A Rifle for Christmas by Rian B. Anderson

Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities.  But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors.  It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.  It was Christmas Eve 1881.  I was 15 years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn’t been enough money to buy the rifle that I’d wanted so bad that year for Christmas.  We did the chores early that night for some reason.  I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read the Bible.  So after supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible.  Instead he bundled up and went outside.  I couldn’t figure it out because we had already done all the chores.  I didn’t worry about it long though; I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.  Soon Pa came back in.  It was a cold night out and there was ice in his beard.  “Come on, Matt,” he said.  “Bundle up good, it’s cold out tonight.”  I was really upset then.  Not only wasn’t I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see.  We’d already done all the chores, and I couldn’t think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this.  But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one’s feet when he’d told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens.  Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house.  Something was up, but I didn’t know what.  Outside I became even more dismayed.  There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled.  Whatever it was we were going to do wasn’t going to be a short, quick, little job, I could tell.  We never hitched up the big sled unless we were going to haul a big load.  Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand.  I reluctantly climbed up beside him.  The cold was already biting at me.  I wasn’t happy.  When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed.  He got off and I followed.  “I think we’ll put on the high sideboards,” he said.  “Here, Help me.”  The high sideboards!  It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on.  When we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went in to the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood, the wood I’d spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all fall sawing into blocks and splitting.  What was he doing?  Finally I said something.  “Pa,“ I asked, “what are you doing?”   “You been by the Widow Jensen’s lately?” he asked.   The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road.  Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight.   Sure, I’d been by, but so what? “Yeah, “I said, “why?”  “I rode by just today,” Pa said.  “Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips.  They’re out of wood, Matt.”  That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood.  I followed him.  We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it.  Finally, Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon.  He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait.  When he returned, he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand.  “What’s in the little sack?”  I asked.  “Shoes.  They’re out of shoes.  Little Jakey just had gunny sacks tied around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning.  I got the children a little candy, too.  It just wouldn’t be Christmas without a little candy.”  We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen’s pretty much in silence.  I tried to think through what Pa was doing.  We didn’t have much by worldly standards.  Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it.  We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew that we didn’t have any money, so why was Pa buying shoes and candy for them?  Really, why was he doing any of this?  Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us.  It shouldn’t have been our concern.  We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then took the meat and flour and shoes to the door.  We knocked.  The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, “Who is it?”  “Lucas Miles, Ma’am, and my son, Matt.  Could we come in for a bit?”  Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in.  She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.  The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all.  Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.  “We brought you a few things, Ma’am,” Pa said and set down the sack of flour.  I put the meat on the table.  Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it.  She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at t time.  There was a pair for her and one for each of the children; sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last.   I watched her carefully.  She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks.  She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn’t come out.  “We brought a load of wood too, Ma’am,” Pa said.  Then he turned to me and said, “Matt, go bring in enough in to last for awhile.  Let’s get that fire up to size and heat this place up.”  I wasn’t the same person when I went out to bring in the wood.  I had a big lump in my throat and, much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes, too.  In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks and so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn’t speak.  My heart swelled within me and a joy filled my soul that I’d never known before.  I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference.  I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.  I soon had the fire blazing and everyone’s spirits soared.  The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn’t crossed her face for a long time.  She finally turned to us.  “God bless you,” she said.  “I know the Lord himself has sent you.  The children and I have been praying that He would send one of his angels to spare us.”  In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again.  I’d never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true.  I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth.  I started remember all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others.  The list seemed endless as I thought on it.  Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left.  I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get.  Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes.  Tears were running down the Widow Jensen’s face again when we stood up to leave.  Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug.  They clung to him and didn’t want us to go.  I could see that they missed their pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.  At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, “The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow.  The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals.  We’ll be by to get you about eleven.  It’ll be nice to have some little ones around again.  Matt, here hasn’t been little for quite a spell.”  I was the youngest.  My older two brothers and two older sisters were all married and had moved away.  Widow Jensen nodded and said.  “Thank you, Brother Miles.  I don’t have to say, May the Lord bless you, for I know that he will.”  Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn’t even notice the cold.  When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said, “Matt, I want you know something.  Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn’t have quite enough.  Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square.  Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that.  But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do.  So, Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children.  I hope you understand.  I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again.  I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it.  Just then the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities.  Pa had given me a lot more.  He had given me the look on Widow Jensen’s face and the radiant smiles of her three children.  For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered -- and remembering me brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night.  Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night.  He had given me the best Christmas of my life.    

The Christmas Coat

The Christmas Coat 

During our first holidays together as a married couple in 1973, my husband received a forty-dollar Christmas bonus. Though we didn’t have much money for gifts, we decided to spend the bonus on a family who had recently lost their husband and father. We had so much fun shopping for presents, wrapping them, and then leaving them in the dark on the family’s front doorstep that we made the secret project a family tradition.

Over the years we were blessed with four children. As soon as each child became tall enough, he or she would take a turn at Christmastime wearing a special coat that we used only once a year. Adult-sized, dark in color, and hooded, the coat made a perfect disguise for sneaking up to someone’s doorstep to leave gifts.

Every autumn we would vote on who our secret family would be that Christmas and on what gifts we would make or purchase for them. After some negotiation, the children would agree on who would have the honor of wearing the Christmas coat and delivering the presents that year. On abundant years we would give homemade quilts or clothing along with toys, books, and goodies, and on leaner years we would give stockings filled with smaller items.

When Christmas Eve finally arrived, the lucky child would don that beloved coat, cinch the hood tight around his or her face, and put on gloves and large boots to complete the disguise. With everyone in the car, we’d park a short distance away from the chosen house, and our little elf would make his or her way to the front porch. The fear of being seen or suspected made it even more exciting!

Back in our cozy home we would sit together with hot cocoa and bread sticks and relive the evening’s adventure. With full tummies and warm hearts, we would read the Christmas story from the Bible and appreciate what the Savior’s life taught us about service. Christmases were always wonderful, and we never missed a year of our tradition. Whenever I saw the Christmas coat hanging in the closet during the year, I would think of what it represented to us: the fun of a well-kept family secret and the joy of loving and sharing.

During the spring of our twentieth year together, my husband lost his job and was out of work for five months. Even though he had a new job by Christmastime, our financial situation was grim. We didn’t expect to have much of a Christmas for our own family, so we wondered how we would carry out our secret tradition.

We talked during family home evening about what our Christmas would be like that year. We recognized with gratitude that even if gifts would be scarce, at least we still had warmth, food, and each other. We thought of all the people who had essentially nothing: no home, no family, no warmth. Then we thought about how for years short little legs had run inside our Christmas coat and bright eyes had peered out from its furry hood. How would we put the coat to use this year?

One Sunday morning we loaded everyone into the car and drove downtown with our Christmas coat—only this time none of the children was wearing it. We drove to an area where homeless people often spent the night, and we watched for someone who didn’t have anything warm to wear in the freezing winter air. When we spotted a man walking alone, my husband and son walked over to him. The rest of us watched as the man accepted the coat and smiled. Tears filled my eyes and I saw him put on our Christmas coat, the only gift we had to give that year.

Other Christmases have since passed, and we have been able to continue our tradition. None of us has forgotten about the Christmas coat, however. When I consider all the years the coat disguised us while we delivered gifts, the memory of the year we gave it away warms my heart the most.