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Following the beautiful Chrisstmas posts from Chonsigirl and Helefra, I thought I'd share a couple of touching Christmas stories that were told to me. They also show the true meaning of Christmas.



The "W" in Christmas


Each December, I had vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience. I had cut back on nonessential obligations -- extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating, and even overspending. Yet still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.



My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six year old. For weeks, he'd been memorizing songs for his school's "Winter Pageant." I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd be working the night of the production. Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher. She assured me there'd be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation. All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then. Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise.

So, the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early, found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down. Around the room, I saw several other parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I waited, the students were led into the room. Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song. Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as "Christmas," I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment -- songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer. So, when my son's class rose to sing, "Christmas Love," I was slightly taken aback by its bold title.



Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters, and bright snowcaps upon their heads. Those in the front row-center-stage held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song. As the class would sing "C is for Christmas," a child would hold up the letter C. Then, "H is for Happy," and on and on, until each child holding up his portion had presented the complete message, "Christmas Love."

The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her; a small, quiet, girl in the front row holding the letter "M" upside down -- totally unaware her letter "M" appeared as a "W". The audience of 1st through 6th graders snickered at this little one's mistake. But she had no idea they were laughing at her, so she stood tall, proudly holding her "W."



Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together. A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen. In that instant, we understood the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos, there was a purpose for our festivities.



For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear: "ChristWAS Love" And, I believe, He still is.

Author Unknown

A Box Full of Kisses.

The story goes that some time ago, a man punished his three-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 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 possession anyone could hold.

Author Unknown

I Believe in Angels

In September 1960, I woke up one morning with six hungry babies and just

75 cents in my pocket. Their father was gone. The boys ranged from three

months to seven years; their sister was two. Their Dad had never been much

more than a presence they feared. Whenever they heard his tires crunch on the

gravel driveway they would scramble to hide under their beds. He did manage

to leave 15 dollars a week to buy groceries. Now that he had decided to

leave, there would be no more beatings, but no food either.

If there was a welfare system in effect in southern Indiana at that time, I

certainly knew nothing about it. I scrubbed the kids until they looked brand

new and then put on my best homemade dress. I loaded them into the rusty old

51 Chevy and drove off to find a job. The seven of us went to every factory,

store and restaurant in our small town. No luck. The kids stayed, crammed

into the car and tried to be quiet while I tried to convince whomever would

listen that I was willing to learn or do anything. I had to have a job. Still

no luck. The last place we went to, just a few miles out of town, was an old

Root Beer Barrel drive-in that had been converted to a truck stop. It was

called the Big Wheel. An old lady named Granny owned the place and she peeked

out of the window from time to time at all those kids. She needed someone on

the graveyard shift, 11 at night until seven in the morning. She paid 65

cents an hour and I could start that night. I raced home and called the

teenager down the street that baby-sat for people. I bargained with her to

come and sleep on my sofa for a dollar a night. She could arrive with her

pajamas on and the kids would already be asleep. This seemed like a good

arrangement to her, so we made a deal. That night when the little ones and I

knelt to say our prayers we all thanked God for finding Mommy a job. And so I

started at the Big Wheel. When I got home in the mornings I woke the

baby-sitter up and sent her home with one dollar of my tip money-fully half

of what I averaged every night.

As the weeks went by, heating bills added another strain to my meager wage.

The tires on the old Chevy had the consistency of penny balloons and began to

leak. I had to fill them with air on the way to work and again every morning

before I could go home. One bleak fall morning, I dragged myself to the car

to go home and found four tires in the back seat. New tires! There was no

note, no nothing, just those beautiful brand new tires. Had angels taken up

residence in Indiana? I wondered. I made a deal with the owner of the local

service station. In exchange for his mounting the new tires, I would clean up

his office. I remember it took me a lot longer to scrub his floor than it did

for him to do the tires. I was now working six nights instead of five and it

still wasn't enough.

Christmas was coming and I knew there would be no money for toys for the

kids. I found a can of red paint and started repairing and painting some old

toys. Then I hid them in the basement so there would be something for Santa

to deliver on Christmas morning. Clothes were a worry too. I was sewing

patches on top of patches on the boys pants and soon they would be too far

gone to repair.

On Christmas Eve the usual customers were drinking coffee in the Big

Wheel. These were the truckers, Les, Frank, and Jim, and a state trooper

named Joe. A few musicians were hanging around after a gig at the Legion and

were dropping nickels in the pinball machine. The regulars all just sat

around and talked through the wee hours of the morning and then left to get

home before the sun came up. When it was time for me to go home at seven

o'clock on Christmas morning I hurried to the car. I was hoping the kids

wouldn't wake up before I managed to get home and get the presents from the

basement and place them under the tree. (We had cut down a small cedar tree

by the side of the road down by the dump.) It was still dark and I couldn't

see much, but there appeared to be some dark shadows in the car-or was that

just a trick of the night? Something certainly looked different, but it was

hard to tell what. When I reached the car I peered warily into one of the

side windows. Then my jaw dropped in amazement. My old battered Chevy was

full- full to the top with boxes of all shapes and sizes. I quickly opened the

driver's side door, scrambled inside and kneeled in the front facing the back

seat. Reaching back, I pulled off the lid of the top box. Inside was a whole

case of little blue jeans, sizes 2-10! I looked inside another box: It was

full of shirts to go with the jeans. Then I peeked inside some of the other

boxes: There were candy and nuts and bananas and bags of groceries. There was an enormous ham for baking, and canned vegetables and potatoes. There was pudding and Jell-O and cookies, pie filling and flour. There was a whole bag

of laundry supplies and cleaning items. And there were five toy trucks and

one beautiful little doll.

As I drove back through empty streets as the sun slowly rose on the most

amazing Christmas Day of my life, I was sobbing with gratitude. And I will

never forget the joy on the faces of my little ones that precious morning.

Yes, there were angels in Indiana that long-ago December. And they all hung

out at the Big Wheel truck stop.

I BELIEVE IN ANGELS! They live next door, around the corner, work in your

office, patrol your neighborhood, call you at midnight to hear you laugh and

listen to you cry, teach your children, and you see them everyday without

even knowing it!

This story was sent to me by a few friends in email.....author unknown

I have a true story to share.

My husband and I were off to celebrate our first Christmas midnight mass together. We strolled hand in hand through the fog, looking and comenting at all the bright twinkling lights on the trees and houses along the way. Made even brighter by the fog.

When we reached the old stone church, the lights inside were warm and glowing, beckoning us inside. We were welcomed by a little lady in a wheelchair with the evenings program. Being immensly curious, having never attended an Anglican service, I was delighted to find all the kneeling and standing bits. Being a presbytarian myself, we miss out on all that. It struck me immediately that this church was old. The stone and glass decorated in the ages with all the trappings of many a midnight service past. The altar was glowing like shiny gold with a radiant light around it. The place had pine branches and holly all over it. The pews were carved dark wood. And they creaked when we sat on it! It was pretty empty when we first arrived, but soon there were plenty of folks joining us. Then to my suprise, the vicar came right up to me and asked where he had seen me before! LOL! This was the first time we had gone to that church! Honest! Then the service began with a tiny little procession up the aisle to the carol 'joy to the world'. And so a magical experience began. Kneeling and standing, kneeling and standing. (they were kind enough to provide cushions to kneel on in comfort) The service was rich with humor, good feelings and singing carols. The guy behind us had such a rich tenor type voice, it made us sing even louder than we normally would. My husband and I held hands throughout, sharing the experience with a touch. Then came the bit I REALLY looked forward to. HOLY communion. We went up row by row to kneel in front of the shiny altar. I looked at the folks to my right to see how they did it. Yep, they hold their hands like you do in a catholic church. So my husband and myself hold our hands out like you do, when you receive communion. And then came the wafer with the blessing. Followed by the big shiny gold chalice. Yep, real wine. Sweet.

When we get back to the pew, my husband and I smile at each other, both thinking that was rather cool! Then lo and behold, even though it wasnt on the list of songs, they begin to play my husbands favorite carol. Once in Royal Davids City. After a couple more songs came the benediction to end what was a wonderful, intimate service. And so back into the early morning fog we went. And the best suprise was yet to come. As we stroll back hand in hand to our warm and cozy flat, thats when he told me. Even though he had been baptised 20 years earlier, that was my husbands first communion.

I dont think I have shared much more precious than that with anyone before. Thats Christmas. The gift of pure Love.

That was beautiful Raven. Thankyou for sharing.

Having moved a lot over the last 20 years I have attended mass in many different churches and I've found there are only a few where you leave feeling as though you've been truly blessed. I don't know why these few churches are special. They weren't all Catholic churches. Maybe it's the people or the feeling of love left by years, sometimes centuries, of prayer. All I would say is that such places of worship are rare and if you find one that you feel blessed in - keep going.

With much love to you and Voodoo, 2 of the loveliest people I know! :-4

:-4 Oh, the story of the box of kisses is so sweet. All her love put into the box for her daddy.

The story of the poor woman's angels resonated with me.

I've never been that bad off but dang close and things seem to happen just when we need them. Sometimes from people, sometimes from the universe but always from God I am sure.