When Giving is Receiving
Three Christmas stories
Whether you’re young or old, with a busy lifestyle or a quiet one, Christmas is a chance to create positive memories for ourselves and others. It doesn’t necessarily require large amounts of time, money, or effort to create a Christmas that can leave its mark in the memories of both the givers and the receivers. Christmas provides the perfect opportunity to involve children, parents, family and friends in activities and encounters that can help people in one way or another. The opportunities are there in big ways or small. If you pray and look around for someone you can help, I guarantee that you will find someone, or someones, who need your assistance. One deed of sacrificial, genuine kindness may achieve more than thousands of words of well-wishing and “Merry Christmases.”
As we manifest the Lord’s love, not only through giving material things, but time, care, empathy, and encouragement, that example can inspire our children and others to want to emulate it.
During my childhood, although my parents didn’t have a lot, they still shared their home and their meals and their faith with those who needed it. I saw the gratefulness with which these gifts were received and how these people looked at my parents as angels sent by God to miraculously intervene in their lives. This impressed me greatly as a young child. It made me want to participate in the giving by sharing my food and house and possessions.
I have heard similar accounts from others whose parents’ example had played an important role in motivating them to want to do the same.
As you read the following stories or share them with your family or friends or community, may they encourage you to put your faith into action.
(Note: The first story has not been previously published by TFI, though the following two have; however, they’re on topic and very inspiring, so I’ve added them at the end of this article for you to enjoy once again.)
The Christmas Angels
It was December 23. For a single mom who was going to college and supporting my children completely alone, Christmas was looking bleak. I looked around my little home, realization dawning like a slow, twisting pain. We were poor.
Our tiny house had two bedrooms, both off the living room. They were so small that my baby daughter’s crib barely fit into one room, and my son’s twin bed and dresser were squeezed into the other. There was no way they could share a room, so I made my bed every night on the living room floor.
The three of us shared the only closet in the house. We were snug, always only a few feet from each other, day and night. With no doors on the children’s rooms, I could see and hear them at all times. It made them feel secure, and it made me feel close to them.
It was early evening, about eight o’clock. The snow was falling softly, silently, and my children were both asleep. I was wrapped in a blanket, sitting at the window, watching the powdery flakes flutter in the dimming light, when my front door vibrated with a pounding fist.
Alarmed, I wondered who would stop by unannounced on such a snowy winter night. I opened the door to find a group of strangers grinning from ear to ear, their arms laden with boxes and bags.
Confused, but finding their joyous spirit contagious, I grinned right back at them.
“Are you Susan?” The man stepped forward as he held out a box for me.
Nodding stupidly, unable to find my voice, I was sure they thought I was mentally deficient.
“These are for you.” The woman thrust a box at me with a huge, beaming smile. The porch light and the snow falling behind her cast a glow over her dark hair, lending her an angelic appearance.
I looked down into her box. It was filled to the top with delicious treats, a fat turkey, and all the makings of a traditional Christmas dinner. My eyes filled with tears as the realization of why they were there washed over me.
Finally coming to my senses, I found my voice and invited them in. Following the husband were two children, staggering with the weight of their packages. The family introduced themselves and told me their packages were all gifts for my little family. This wonderful, beautiful family, who were total strangers to me, somehow knew exactly what we needed. They brought wrapped gifts for each of us, a full buffet for me to make on Christmas Day, and many “extras” that I could never afford. Visions of a beautiful, “normal” Christmas danced in my head. Somehow my secret wish for Christmas was materializing right in front of me. The desperate prayers of a single mom had been heard, and I knew right then that God had sent His angels my way.
My mysterious angels then handed me a white envelope, gave me another round of grins, and took turns hugging me. They wished me a Merry Christmas and disappeared into the night as suddenly as they had appeared.
Amazed and deeply touched, I looked around me at the boxes and gifts strewn at my feet and felt the ache of depression suddenly being transformed into a childlike joy. I began to cry. I cried hard, sobbing tears of the deepest gratitude. A great sense of peace filled me. The knowledge of God’s love reaching into my tiny corner of the world enveloped me like a warm quilt. My heart was full. I fell to my knees amid all the boxes and offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
Getting to my feet, I wrapped myself in my blankets and sat once again to gaze out the window at the gently falling snow. Suddenly, I remembered the envelope. Like a child, I ripped it open and gasped at what I saw. A shower of bills flitted to the floor. Gathering them up, I began to count the five, ten, and twenty-dollar bills. As my vision blurred with tears, I counted the money, then recounted it to make sure I had it right. Sobbing again, I said it out loud: “One hundred dollars.”
I looked at my children sleeping soundly, and through my tears I smiled my first happy, free-of-worry smile in a long, long time. My smile turned into a grin as I thought about tomorrow: Christmas Eve. One visit from complete strangers had magically turned a painful day into a special one that we would always remember … with happiness.
It is now several years since our Christmas angels visited. I have remarried, and our household is happy and richly blessed. Every year since that Christmas, we have chosen a family less blessed than we are. We bring them carefully selected gifts, food, and treats, and as much money as we can spare. It’s our way of passing on what was given to us. It’s the “ripple effect” in motion. We hope that the cycle continues and that, someday, the families we share with will be able to pass it on, too.
—By Susan Fahncke
Giving Christmas Away
The Christmas I remember best began with tragedy. It happened at 6:00 a.m. on one of those crisp Idaho Falls mornings the day before Christmas. Our neighbors, the Jesse Smith family, slept peacefully in their two-story home. The baby, barely six months old, was in a crib next to her parents’ room, and the three older children were upstairs.
Suddenly something jarred Jesse from his sleep. He thought he smelled smoke. Could a spark from the torch he’d defrosted the frozen water pipes with the day before have started a fire in the basement? Still half asleep, he stumbled to the bedroom door and flung it open. Clouds of black smoke poured into the room.
“Lorraine,” he yelled, “get the baby!” and ran toward the stairs and his sleeping children. The smoke was thicker as he gasped for breath. “Rick, Tom! Wake up!” The boys scrambled out of their beds. “Run, boys!” Tom grabbed his younger brother’s hand, and they raced down the smoke-filled stairway to safety.
His daughter’s room was next. As Jesse groped through the heavy shroud of gray he called, “Cindy, Cindy! Where are you?” “Here, Daddy, here!” He followed the frightened cries, scooped up his daughter in his arms, and with his hand over her face, felt his way out of the room and down through a narrow path of searing flames. They coughed, choked, and gasped for breath, until they at last stumbled out the door where a relieved wife and three children stood shivering in the snow.
Now the family looked to the smoke and flames pouring out the roof of their home—the home that the night before had held all their earthly treasures. It had also held a promise of Christmas, mulled cider, homemade candy, and stockings waiting to be filled. They stood huddled in their nightclothes, barefoot in the biting cold, watching their Christmas burn up with their house.
The spell was broken by the sound of sirens piercing the icy air. Firemen leaped from the huge red trucks and turned their powerful hoses on the blaze. Seconds later, the bishop of the Smith’s ward drove up, bundled the family into his car and took them to a home the ward elder’s quorum had just completed as a fundraising project. They were not to witness the firemen’s hopeless battle with the flames, for when the trucks finally pulled away, this time in silence, nothing stood of their house but its charred skeleton against the sky.
And tomorrow was Christmas. At our house we were putting the last secret wrappings on the presents, making the last batch of popcorn for popcorn balls to go in our Christmas stockings. We three children were attempting dubious harmony with our favorite carols and breaking into giggles at the results.
Then Dad came home with the news. We sat with serious faces listening to him tell of the fire, the narrow escape, the house where the Smiths were spending Christmas Eve.
“Why?” Mother said. “Why did this happen, just at Christmas? It isn’t fair. They had children, just the same ages as ours,” she said. Jesse and Dad were the closest of friends; they even joked that they were so close they wore the same size shirt. The same size shirt!
“Bill,” Mother began hesitantly, “would you mind terribly if we gave Jesse one of the shirts I bought for you for Christmas? You wear the same size.
A hush fell on us all. We all seemed to be thinking the same thing. “I’ve got it!” my ten-year-old brother shouted out. “We’ll give the Smiths a Christmas!”
“Where could we get one?” my inquisitive little sister asked. “We’ll give them ours!” the others chorused.
“Of course, we’ll give them ours!” The house rang with excited voices, until Dad’s stern command silenced us. “Hold it. Let’s make sure we all want to do this. Let’s take a vote. All in favor say aye.”
“Aye!” chorused back at him. “All opposed?” was met with silence.
The hours that followed are ones we will never forget. First we sat around the tree and handed out presents. Instead of opening them, the giver would divulge their contents so the label could be changed to the appropriate Smith family member. My heart fell when Dad handed Kevin a box wrapped in gold foil and green ribbon. “It’s a baseball glove, son,” Dad told him, and a flash of disappointment crossed Kevin’s face. I knew how he’d longed for that glove and Dad wanted to say, “You keep it, son,” but he didn’t.
Kevin replied, “Look, here’s the recipe holder I made for you. That is for Sister Smith.” We signed all the tags, “From Santa,” and the activity that followed would have put his workshop elves to shame.
They had presents, but what about a Christmas dinner? The turkey was cooked, pies baked, the carrots and celery prepared, then all packed in a box. The Christmas stockings must be stuffed. Dad got a length of clothesline and clothespins to hang the stockings with. But what about a tree? We looked at ours. Could we really part with it? “I know,” Dad volunteered, “let’s decorate it with things they’ll need.” And so more things were added to the tree: a tube of toothpaste tied with red ribbon, a razor, comb and bars of soap nestled in the branches. Finally it was all ready.
It was a strange procession that silently paraded through the dark streets of Idaho Falls that night. Father led the way carrying a completely decorated tree. Mother followed with a complete Christmas dinner, down to the last dish of cranberry sauce. The three of us children pulled wagons and a sled piled with boxes of gifts. We waited until the last light was out in the Smiths’ borrowed home. Then Mom and Dad stealthily carried each item in the door. When the last stocking was hung, we turned again toward home.
All the way home I worried about what waited for my family at our home. What if the others were disappointed? All that’s left are a few pine needles and paper scraps. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The minute we were back inside, we were more excited than ever. Every pine needle and paper scrap was a reminder of the magic of the evening, and we hadn’t taken that to the Smiths. It was in our home as real as if you could see it.
A happier family never went to bed on a Christmas Eve, and the next morning the magic was still there. For our celebration we wrote a promise to each person on a card and presented it around a spruce branch tied in a red ribbon.
“One shoe shine—to Father. Love, Kevin.” “This is good for two turns doing the evening dishes. Love, your husband, Bill.” And so it went.
Our Christmas dinner consisted of scrambled eggs and bacon, toast, and sliced oranges. Somehow, I don’t remember a better one. And I know we sang our carols that night with unconventional harmony, but they sounded sweeter than angels to me.
“Oh, Mommy,” said my small sister as she snuggled up for her bedtime Christmas story, “I like to give Christmas away.” Tears blurred the book in Mother’s hands, because she knew that none of us would ever forget this Christmas, the one when we gave our best gift. As she read the story of the baby born in a manger, it seemed our gift was but a small tribute to Him who gave His best gift—His son—to us.
—By Mrs. W. R. Swinyard
The Rifle
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 that the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.
It was Christmas Eve. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn’t been enough money to buy me the rifle that I’d wanted 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 in the Bible.
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. I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn’t in much of a mood to read Scriptures. But Pa didn’t get the Bible, instead he bundled up again 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, clear 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 we were going to do wasn’t going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this 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, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on. After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into 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 called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and 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 wrapped 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 we didn’t have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy? 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 we 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 a 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. He turned to me and said, “Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let’s get that fire up to size and heat this place up.”
I wasn’t the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat, and as 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 with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn’t speak.
My heart swelled within me and a joy that I’d never known before filled my soul. 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 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 remembering 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 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 two brothers and two sisters had 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. I know for certain 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 to 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. 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. Now 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 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.
—By Rian B. Anderson