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The "W" in Christmas

Each December, I 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:

"C H R I S T W A S L O V E"

And, I believe, He still is. Amazed in His presence... Humbled by His love.

May each of you have a Merry Christmas as you reflect on His Amazing Love for us...

Unknown~~~

Ok, Prairiemade here is the story which you reminded me of with your comment on my last entry - As a young boy, I spent much time with my maternal grandparents. My Grandfather was one of the old time "Mountain Men" that we can only read about today, and as far as he was concerned, I could do no wrong and there was nothing I couldn't do if I wanted............ back then, whenever chicken was on the menu, it always came out of the henhouse, never from the store.

I was somewhere around 6-7-8 years old and had watched the ritual - hold em by both legs and wingtips - lay their head and neck on the chopping block - cleanly chop the head off, and quickly drop the chicken into a barrel until it stopped flopping. I had gotten tired of just watching this part and then having to help my Grandmother scald and pluck them, sooooooo I told my grandfather that I wanted to change jobs with him..........and he said ok.

Well, when the time came, he helped me catch the chicken and get my very small hands around both legs and wingtips and then he stepped back............I laid the head and neck on the chopping block............took the very heavy 3-4 pound axe in my right hand, raised it and.........WHACK........dropped the axe.................quickly threw the chicken into the barrel....................and just as quickly, the chicken flew right back out of the barrel and headed for the woods!!!! My aim with the axe apparently wasn't too good because all I had cut off was about a half inch of his beak - and it took about a week before we were able to catch that bird and finally put him in the pot.

My Grandfather, being the man that he was(when he got finished laughing, of course), walked right into the coop - caught another chicken - handed it to me - and stepped back - that time was complete success, and I was a very proud puppy. I have killed many, many chickens since then, and never have missed my mark again, and never fail to think about "My First Time".
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Somehow I survived the three months of Boot Camp at Parris Island and have reported to Camp Geiger, N.C. for Infantry Training "Today". The date is 12 September 1960.

Posted at 12:47:11 AM | Post Comment | Read Comments (3)

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We Have A Winner Here!

2005-12-15

and.......a Christmas Story!!

2005-12-03

My First Time!!!