“Christmas is not as much about opening our presents as opening our hearts.” – Janice Maeditere

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Isaiah 7:14 Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.

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O Come, O Come Emmanuel
Celtic Angels
Celtic Angels features female vocalists in a variety of Celtic-influenced performances
audio recording – absolutely beautiful!  I love hearing this song in both English and Latin.  The haunting music will stay forever.
Celtic Angels - O Come, O Come Emmanuel

Celtic Angels - O Come, O Come Emmanuel I thought you'd like it ;) - uploaded via http://www.mp32u.net/

O come, O come Emmanuel
To free your captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice, rejoice O Israel
To you shall come Emmanuel
Veni, veni, Emmanuel
Captivum solve Israel
Qui gemit in exilio
Privatus Dei Filio
Gaude, gaude, Emmanuel
Nascetur pro te, Israel
O come, Thou Key of David, come
And open wide our heav'nly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! O Israel
To you shall come Emmanuel

~*~~*~~~*~~*~

Following the Savior’s example is easy.  All we have to do is forget about “me” and think about “we.”  I was the recipient of a gift of service performed last night by a cousin, Stacia Hopkins.  I couldn’t figure out how to change the background on my blog.  She changed it for me, and made me a video on how to do it.  I am so grateful. It was wonderful!  Service doesn’t have to be something spectacular.   Mother Teresa said, “We can do no great things – only small things with great love.”  She changed the lives of millions of people, one act of service at a time.  So let’s start there  – let’s do small things with great love.  Involve your family, your children or grandchildren, nieces or nephews.  Help them to learn the joy that comes from serving others.

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Here’s a simple recipe that can be made with supervision.  Allow your children to be involved at all levels, especially in choosing who to give them to.

SPICED WALNUTS
1/4 c. water
1 c. sugar
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1/4 tsp. ginger
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 lb. bag walnuts

In a large skillet put water, sugar and spices. Allow to boil and thicken. Put walnuts in pan and coat them with mixture. Spread out on a flat surface, separate and let them cool. Great for a holiday gift.

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'Heaven and Angels Sing'
By Carol Stigger

extracted from https://people.howstuffworks.com/culture-traditions/holidays-christmas/inspirational-christmas-stories5.htm  

At the Christmas Eve church service, I sat with my two boisterous grandchildren, ages three and five. Their parents sat in front of the church to present a nativity reading titled "Silent Night." They had warned the children to behave. I had warned the children to behave. With scrubbed angelic faces and Christmas wonder in their eyes, they looked like model children posing for a magazine holiday spread. I indulged myself in a few moments of pride.

Alec pinched Aubrey. I was grateful that the organ thundered into the first hymn just then, drowning out her yelp. I grabbed her hand before she could return the pinch. During the Lord's Prayer, Aubrey shredded the program I had given her to color on. The crayons had already rolled under the pew. I watched bits of paper fall on the carpet like snow. I would help her pick it up later, but for now the naughtiness I was allowing kept her occupied and her brother quietly admiring.
We were enjoying an uneasy truce when their parents stood to deliver the reading.
"Mommy!" Alec yelled.
She frowned, and he sat back in his seat.
"Silence," my son said to the congregation. "Think for a moment what that word means to you."
My daughter-in-law signed his words. Earlier that year, she began to use her new signing skills for the benefit of the few hearing-impaired members of our church.
Alec said a naughty word, thankfully too low for many to hear. I scowled at him, shaking my finger and my head. Aubrey grinned. Then she proclaimed, every syllable enunciated perfectly, in a clear voice that carried to far corners of the sanctuary, "Alec is a potty mouth!"
Everyone stared. I was too stunned to speak. My son and his wife looked at each other. But instead of anger, I saw surprise.
My son set aside his script and told another story. He told about their daughter being born profoundly deaf. He talked about four years of hearing aids and speech therapy with no guarantee she would ever learn to speak plainly. He talked about the rugged faith that kept the family praying she would have a normal life.
He said Aubrey's outburst was an answer to prayer: the first perfectly enunciated sentence she had ever spoken.
From the back of the room, a lone voice sang the last line of a beloved Christmas Carol: Hark! The herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn king.
While the congregation sang four verses of the unscheduled hymn, my two little angels wiggled in their parents' arms, adding laughter and giggles to the joyful Christmas noise.

 

corrections to last paragraph of story

When the birdling was taken out of the shoe, they found he did not try to fly, only to hop about the room; and as they looked closer, they could see that one of his wings was hurt a little.  But the mother bound it up carefully, so she that it did not seem to pain him, and he was so gentle that he took a drink of water from a cup, and even ate seeds and crumbs out of Piccola’s hands.  She was a proud little girl when she took her Christmas present to show the children in the garden.  They had had a great many gifts, –dolls that could say “mamma,” bright picture books, trains of cars, toy pianos; but not one of their playthings was alive, like Piccola’s birdling.  They were as pleased as she, and Rose hunted about the house until she found a large wicker cage that belonged to a blackbird she once had.  She gave the cage to Piccola, and the swallow seemed to make himself quite at home in it at once, and sat on the perch winking his bright eyes at the children.  Rose had saved a bag of candies for Piccola, and when she went home at last, with the cage and her dear swallow safely inside it, I am sure there was not a happier little girl in the whole country of Italy.

December 3

Christmas is a time to expand our giving encompassing the friendless and needy ... near and far. Christmas is sharing.  Patricia Clafford

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Luke 2:7  And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

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Carol of the Bells
     
Peter Hollens & Friends
video of Peter Hollens and friends singing this song – great clip

Hark how the bells, Sweet silver bells,
All seem to say, throw cares away
Christmas is here, Bringing good cheer
To young and old, Meek and the bold.
Ding dong ding dong That is their song
With joyful ring All caroling.

One seems to hear words of good cheer
From everywhere Filling the air.
Oh how they pound, Raising the sound,
O’er hill and dale, Telling their tale.
Gaily they ring While people sing
Songs of good cheer, Christmas is here.

Merry, Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas
Merry, Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas
On on they send, On without end,
Their joyful tone to every home.

Ding dong ding dong
Ding dong ding dong

~*~~*~~~*~~*~

Good Sabbath, everyone  ~~  Marilee

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Little Piccola
 suggested by one of Mrs. Celia Thaxter’s poems

Piccola lived in Italy, where the oranges grow and where all the year the sun shines warm and bright.  I suppose you think Piccola a very strange name fr a little girl; but in her country it was not strange at all, and her mother thought it the sweetest name a little girl ever had.

Piccola had no kind father, no big brother or sister, and no sweet baby to play with and love.  She and her mother lived all alone in an old stone house that looked on a dark, narrow street.  They were very poor, and the mother was away from home almost every day, washing clothes and scrubbing floors, and working hard to earn money for her little girl and herself.  So you see Piccola was alone a great deal of the time; and if she had not been a very happy, contented little child, I hardly know what she would have done.  She had no playthings except a heap of stones in the back yard that she used for building houses and a very old, very ragged doll that her mother had found in the street one day.

But there was a small round hole in the stone wall at the back of her yard, and her greatest pleasure was to look through that into her neighbor’s garden.  When she stood on a stone, and put her eye close to the hole, she could see the green grass in the garden, and smell the sweet flowers, and even hear the water splashing into the fountain.  She had never seen anyone walking in the garden, for it belonged to an old gentleman who did not care about grass and flowers.

One day in the autumn her mother told her that the old gentleman had gone away, and had rented his house to a family of little American children, who had come with their sick mother to spend the winter in Italy.  After this, Piccola was never lonely, for all day long the children ran and played and dance in the garden.  It was several weeks before they saw her at all, and I am not sure they would have done so but one day the kitten ran away, and in chasing her they came close to the wall and saw Piccola’s black eyes looking through the hole in the stones.  They were a little frightened at first, and did not speak to her, but the next day she was thee again, and Rose, the oldest girl, went up to the wall and talked to her a while.  When the children found that she had no one to play with and was very lonely, they talked to her every day, and often brought her fruits and candies, and passed them through the hole in the wall.

One day they even pushed the kitten through; but the hole was hardly large enough for her, and she mewed and scratched and was very much frightened.  After the little boy said he would ask his father if the hole might not be made larger, and then Piccola could come in and play with them.  The father found out that Piccola’s mother was a good woman, and that the little girl herself was sweet and kind, so that he was very glad to have some of the stones broken away and an opening made for Piccola to come in.

How excited she was, and how glad the children were when she first stepped into the garden!  She wore her best dre4ss, a long, bright-colored woolen skirt and a white waist.  Round her neck was a string of beads, and on her feet were little wooden shoes.  It would seem very strange to us – would it not? – to wear wooden shoes; but Piccola and her mother had never worn anything else, and never had money to buy any stockings.  Piccola almost always ran about barefooted, like the kitten and the chickens and the little ducks.  What a good time they had that day, and how glad Piccola’s mother was that her little girl could have such a pleasant, safe place to play in, while she was away at work!

By and by December came, and the little Americans began to talk about Christmas.  One day, when Piccola’s curly head and bright eyes cam peeping through the hole in the wall, and they ran to her and helped her in; and as they did so, they all asked her at once what she thought she would have for a Christmas present.  “A Christmas present!” said Piccola, “Why, what is that?”

All the children looked surprised at this, and rose said, rather gravel, “Dear Piccola, don’t you know what Christmas is?”

Oh, yes, Piccola knew it was the happy day when the Christ was born, and she had been to church n that day and heard the beautiful singing, and had seen the picture of the babe lying in the manger, with cattle and sheep sleeping round about.  Oh yes, she knew all that very well, but what was a Christmas present?

Then the children began to laugh and to answer her all together.  Thee was such a clatter of tongues that she could hear only a few of the words now and then, such as “chimney,” “Santa Claus,” “stockings,” “reindeer,” “Christmas Eve,” “candies and toys.”  Piccola put her hands over her ears and said, “Oh, I can’t understand one word.  You tell me, Rose.”    Then Rose told her all about jolly santa Claus, with his red cheeks and white beard and fur coat, and about his reindeer and sleigh full of toys.  “Every Christmas Eve,” said rose, “he comes down the chimney and fills the stockings of all the good children; so, Piccola, you hang up your stocking, and who knows what a beautiful Christmas you will find when morning comes!”  Of course Piccola thought this was a delightful plan, and was very pleased to hear about it.  Then all the children told her of every Christmas Eve they could remember, and of the presents they had had; so that she went home thinking of nothing but dolls and hoops and balls and ribbons and marbles and wagons and kites.

She told her mother about Santa Claus, and her mother seemed to think that perhaps he did not know there was any little girl in that house, and very likely he would not come at all.  But Piccola felt very sure Santa would remember her, for her little friends had promised to send a letter up the chimney to remind him.

Christmas Eve came at last.  Piccola’s mother hurried home from her work; they had their little supper of soup and bread, and soon it was bedtime,–time to get ready for Santa Claus.  But oh!  Piccola remembered then for the first time that the children had told her she must hang up her stocking, and she hadn’t any, neither had her mother.

How sad, how sad it was!  Now Santa would come, and perhaps be angry because he couldn’t find and place to put the present.

The poor little girl stood by the fireplace, and the big tears began to run down her cheeks.  Just then her mother called to her, “Hurry, Piccola, come to bed.”  What should she do? But she stopped crying, and tried to think; and in a moment she remembered her wooden shoes, and ran off to get one of them.  She put it close to the chimney, and said to herself, “Surely Santa Claus will know what it’s there for.  He will know I haven’t any stockings, so I gave him the shoe instead.”

 Then she went off happily to her bed, and was asleep almost as soon as she had nestled close to her mother’s side.

The sun had only just begun to shine, next morning, when Piccola awoke.  With one jump she was out on the floor and running toward the chimney.  The wooden shoe was lying where she had left it, but you could never, never guess what was in it.

Her mother raised her head and looked into the shoe.  “Why, Piccola,” she said, “a little chimney swallow nesting in your shoe?  What a good Santa Claus to bring you a bird!”

“Good Santa Claus, dear Santa Claus!”  cried Piccola, and she kissed her mother and kissed the bird and kissed the shoe, and even threw kisses up the chimney, she was so happy.

When the barding was taken out of the shoe, they found he did not try to fly, only to hop about the room; and as they looked closer, they could see that one of his wings was hurt a little.  But the mother bound it up carefully, so she that it did not seem to pain him, and he was so gentle that he took a drink of water from a cup, and even ate seeds and crumbs out of Piccola’s hands.  She was a proud little girl when she took her Christmas present to show the children in the garden.  They had had a great many gifts, –dolls that could say “mamma,” bright picture books, trains of cars, toy pianos; but not one of their playthings was alive, like Piccola’s barding.  They were as pleased as she, and rose hunted about the house until she found a large wicker cage that belonged to a blackbird she once had.  She gave the cage to Piccola, and the swallow seemed to make himself quite at home in it at once, and sat on the perch winking his bright eyes at the children.  Rose ha saved a bog of candies for Piccola, and when she went home at last, with the cage and her dear swallow safely inside it, I am sure ther4e was not a happier little girl in the whole country of Italy.

* From “the story Hour,” by Wiggins and Smith.  Published by the consent of the authors and also the publishers – Houghton, Mifflin and Company

* this Ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org

http://www.imom.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/little_piccola_smith.pdf

December 2

Best of all, Christmas means a spirit of love, a time when the love of God and the love of our fellow men should prevail over all hatred and bitterness, a time when our thoughts and deeds and the spirit of our lives manifest the presence of God.  George F. McDougall 

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Isaiah 7:14 Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.

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Be Born in Me
Francesca Battistelli
Francesca Battistelli is an American Christian singer and songwriter from New York City, currently living in Nashville.   She received a grammy in 2016 for best contemporary Christian music performance/song.  Her voice is beautiful, and so is this song.




Everything inside me cries for order
Everything inside me wants to hide
Is this shadow of an angel or a warrior?
If God is pleased with me, why am I so terrified?
Someone tell me I am only dreaming
Somehow help me see with Heaven's eyes
And before my head agrees, my heart is on its knees
Holy is He; blessed am I.

Be born in me, be born in me
Trembling heart, somehow I believe that You chose me
I'll hold You in the beginning, You will hold me in the end
Every moment in the middle, make my heart Your Bethlehem
Be born in me

All this time we've waited for the promise
All this time You've waited for my arms
Did You wrap yourself inside the unexpected
So we might know that Love would go that far?

Be born in me, be born in me
Trembling heart, somehow I believe that You chose me
I'll hold You in the beginning, You will hold me in the endEvery moment in the middle, make my heart Your Bethlehem
Be born in me

I am not brave
I'll never be
The only thing my heart can offer is a vacancy
I'm just a girl
Nothing more
But I am willing, I am Yours

Be born in me, be born in me
I'll hold You in the beginning, You will hold me in the end
Every moment in the middle, make my heart Your Bethlehem
Be born in me

~*~~*~~~*~~*~

Edible Ornaments
https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/ornament-popcorn-balls

Ornamental Popcorn Balls Recipe
10 c. popped popcorn
1 - 10 oz package large marshmallows
1/4 c. butter, cubed
1/4 t. salt
Optional decorations: candy canes, candy spearmint leaves, and assorted gumdrops
Place popcorn in a large bowl.  In a large saucepan, combine marshmallows, butter and salt.  Cook and stir over medium-low heat until melted.  Pour over popcorn; mix well.  Cool slightly.
With greased hands, shape mixture into 12 popcorn balls.  About 3/4 c. each.  Place on waxed paper.  Decorate as desired.  Let stand until set.

Originally published as Ornament Popcorn Balls in Taste of Home Dec. 2013
extracted from https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/ornament-popcorn-balls

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Over 2000 years ago, a tiny baby was born and laid in a manger of hay.  He grew up, and admonished people to “come follow me” (Matt 4:19).  As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, He saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting nets into the sea, for they were fishermen.  He called to them and they left their nets and spent the rest of their lives serving their Savior and their fellow men.  The call to “come follow me” didn’t apply only to those who would become his apostles, it applies to each of us, His disciples today. I am grateful for all the blessings God has given my family and me.  There is no more perfect time than right now to “follow him.”  Reaching out to those around us in love and joy not only helps them, it helps us, too.  We can make a difference in this world, not just at Christmastime, but all year long.  A lot of people say “how can I serve?  Where can I serve?”  Check out justserve.org to find out what service opportunities there are in your community.  Open your eyes to the opportunities around you.  Start now. ~~ Marilee

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Helping Others
extracted from https://www.poemsbycc.com/HelpingOthers.html

Did you ever stop to help someone
stuck beside the road?
Or help a person carry bags
to their car for them to load?
These opportunities lend themselves
to us most every day.
Yet many times we turn our heads
and look the other way...

To read this poem in it’s entirety, go to the above link


A Christmas Prayer
 Robert Louis Stevenson

Loving Father,
Help us to remember the birth of Jesus
that we may share in the song of the angels,
the gladness of the shepherds,
and the worship of the wise men.

Close the door of hate and
open the door of love all over the world.
Let kindness come with every gift and
good desires with every greeting.

Deliver us from evil by the blessing
which Christ brings, and teach us to
be merry with clear hearts.

May the Christmas morning make us happy
to be Thy children, and the Christmas evening
bring us to our beds with grateful thoughts,
forgiving and forgiven, for Jesus' sake.
Amen.

December 1, 2017

As we seek Christ, as we find Him, as we follow Him, we shall have the Christmas spirit, not for one fleeting day each year, but as a companion always. We shall learn to forget ourselves. We shall turn our thoughts to the greater benefit of others.  Thomas S Monson

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Isaiah 9:6 For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace

~~~*~~*~~~

Christmas is a time when we find our way back home, whether in person or in our hearts. It's a time to celebrate the birth of Jesus, relive childhood memories, continue cherished traditions, and share hospitality and good will with others. It is a privilege for me to share my love of Jesus Christ with you. Throughout the month of December, I will be sending easy recipes or food “gift” ideas along with instructions.  With very few exceptions, they are all projects which children can help make.  There will be stories, poems, scriptures and thoughts about Christmas. Our world is full of unrest... people strike out in anger and rage, hatred seems everywhere. It’s “us” whoever “us” is versus “them.”  Each letter this year will include ideas to help us serve each other, to help us move past the “usses” and “thems”.  

We must not let the influence of evil overpower the influence of good. Eleanor Roosevelt said, “It isn’t enough to talk about peace. One must believe in it. And it isn’t enough to believe in it. One must work at it.” 

Do those words sound  familiar?  I wrote that passage several years ago, but find it even more appropriate now.  I hope that together we can find the gift of peace through service to others.  ~~  Marilee

This year’s music represents a wide variety of genres.  There will be jazz, country, choir, instrumental, Celtic,  contemporary Christian, and even rock music.  Some have wonderful videos with them and will be marked as video.  Others will be marked as audio recordings or lyric recordings (which have the words included with the video.)  Who could be more appropriate to start off the year with  than the Queen of Jazz, Ella Fitzgerald, herself, singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
Ella Fitzgerald
audio recording

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the yule-tide gay
Next year all our troubles will be miles away

Once again as in olden daysHappy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Will be near to us once more

Someday soon, we all will be together, if the fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Once again as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Will be near to us once more

Someday soon, we all will be together, if the fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

~~~*~~*~~~

Eggnog Breakfast Bread Pudding
Adapted from Marion Cunningham’s The Breakfast Book
Serves 8 to 10

1 loaf French bread, cubed
4 ounces unsalted butter
3 cups pumpkin eggnog
2 cups whole milk
5 large eggs
4 egg yolks
1 cup sugar
Pinch salt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Confectioners’ sugar and warm maple syrup, for serving

Pile cubes into a 2-quart baking dish.  Heat the eggnog and milk in a large saucepan over medium heat until bubbling gently but not boiling.
Combine the eggs, egg yolks, sugar, and salt in a large mixing bowl and whisk vigorously until light and frothy. Whisk one cup of the eggnog mixture into the eggs to warm them. Gradually whisk in the remaining eggnog mixture.
Pour the custard over the bread cubes.  Set aside for a minimum of one hour or chill overnight in the refrigerator.
Preheat the oven to 375°F.  Place the casserole dish inside of a large roasting pan.  Pour boiling water into the roasting pan, so that it comes halfway up the sides of the baking dish.
Bake for approximately 45 to 50 minutes, until the custard is set and the top is light golden brown.
Serve with warm maple syrup.

****
Here is a fun craft which can be done with children.  They can help make the ornaments, as well as hang them.  I have ths pinned to my pinterest page, or you can follow this link.  There are two different sets of instructions
Bird seed ornaments
How to Make Birdseed Christmas Ornaments | eHow

How to Make Birdseed Christmas Ornaments | eHow How to Make Birdseed Christmas Ornaments. Adorable birdseed ornaments are an inexpensive activity the whole fami...

~~~*~~*~~~

is true story was originally published in the December 14, 1982 issue of Woman's Day magazine. It was the first place winner out of thousands of entries in the magazine's "My Most Moving Holiday Tradition" contest in which readers were asked to share their favorite holiday tradition and the story behind it. The story inspired a family from Atlanta, Georgia to start The White Envelope Project and Giving101, a nonprofit organization dedicated to educating youth about the importance of giving. To learn more about honoring a loved one through this special tradition, please visit www.WhiteEnvelopeProject.org.

WHITE ENVELOPE CHRISTMAS
 by Nancy W Gavin

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas---oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it- overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition---one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the true Christmas spirit this year and always. God bless.

Extracted from http://www.inspire21.com/stories/holiday stories/WhiteEnvelopeChristmas

~~~*~~*~~~

This year's emails are available through yahoo groups or on my blog https://christmasstorylady.blogspot.com/

Test to See If This works (hope, hope)