The shepherds reverently approached the stable to worship the King of kings. How will we worship Him this season? Endlessly shopping? Hustling about and adorning our homes? Will that be our tribute to our Savior? Or will we bring peace to troubled hearts, good will to those in need of higher purpose, glory to God in our willingness to do His bidding? – Ronald A. Rasband
🌟⭐✯⭐🌟
Ezekiel 34:31 And ye my flock, the flock of my pasture, are men, and I am your God, saith the Lord GOD.”
🌟⭐✯⭐🌟
Carol of the Bells - The Annie Moses Band (Official Music Video) - YouTube
🌟⭐✯⭐🌟
I
had a request for this story, and am posting it today. It’s such a
great story. Good Sabbath, everyone
~~ Marilee
The
Christmas I Remember Best
It
should have been the worst, the bleakest of Christmases. It turned
out to be the loveliest of all my life.
I
was nine years old, one of seven children, and we lived in a little
farming town in Utah. It had been a tragic year for all of us. But we
still had our father, and that made all the difference.
Every
year in our town a Christmas Eve Social was held at the church. How
well I remember Dad buttoning our coats, placing us on our long
homemade sleigh and pulling us to the church about a mile away. It
was snowing. How cold and good it felt on our faces. We held tight to
one another, and above the crunch of snow beneath Dad’s feet we
could hear him softly whistling Silent Night.
Mama
had died that previous summer. She had been confined to bed for three
years, so Dad had assumed all mother and father responsibilities. I
remember him standing me on a stool by our big round kitchen table
and teaching me to mix bread. But my main task was being Mama’s
hands and feet until that day in June, her own birthday, when she
died. Two months later came the big fire. Our barn, sheds, haystacks
and livestock were destroyed. It was a calamity, but Dad stood
between us and the disaster. We weren’t even aware of how poor we
were. We had no money at all.
I
don’t remember much about the Christmas Eve Social. I just remember
Dad pulling us there and pulling us back. Later, in the front room
around our pot-bellied stove, he served us warm milk and bread. Our
Christmas tree, topped by a little worn cardboard angel, had been
brought from the nearby hills. Strings of our home-grown popcorn made
it the most beautiful tree I had ever seen–or smelled.
After
supper Dad made all seven of us sit in a half circle by the tree. I
remember I wore a long flannel nightgown. He sat on the floor facing
us and told us that he was ready to give us our Christmas gift. We
waited, puzzled because we thought Christmas presents were for
Christmas morning. Dad looked at our expectant faces. “Long ago,
“he said, “on a night like this, some poor shepherds were
watching their sheep on a lonely hillside. When all of a sudden
...”
His
quiet voice went on and on, telling the story of the Christ Child in
his own simple words, and I’ll never forget how love and gratitude
seemed to fill the room. There was light from the oil lamp and warmth
from the stove, but somehow it was far more than that. We felt Mama’s
presence. We learned that loving someone was far more important than
having something. We were filled with peace and happiness and
joy.
When
the story ended Dad had us all kneel for a family prayer. Then he
said, “Try to remember, when everything else seems to be lost, the
greatest of all remains: God’s love for us. That’s what Christmas
means. That’s the gift that can never be taken away.”
The
next morning we found dad had whittled little presents for each of us
and hung them on the tree, dolls for the girls, whistles for the
boys. But he was right: He had given us our real gift the night
before. All this happened long ago, but to this day it all comes back
to me whenever I hear Silent Night or feel snowflakes on my face, or
– best of all–when I get an occasional glimpse of Christ shining
in my 90-year-old father’s face.
