Angels Singing Tenor

I love the stories about miracles that surface this time of year.  I just came across the following post on one of my favorite blogs.  I share my own similar miracle at the end.

Angels Singing Tenor

Just for the record, I’m still on vacation until January 2^nd. But, I have had a couple memories surface over the last few Christmas days that I wanted to share with you before the season ends.
I have never participated in a performance of Handel’s Messiah when miracles did not happen.
I mentioned in a previous post that I have sung in or conducted Handel’s Messiah for nineteen years. During that time I have come to believe that Jesus Christ actually loves that music, especially when the singers are worshiping him and praising the Father. I have seen so many miracles that the idea that they will occur is actually stronger than faith – bordering knowledge fueled by long experience.
About five years ago we did not have a strong soprano soloist. There were quite a few talented voices willing to do these parts, but I always like to have one or two superb soloists. We always pray and ask for guidance in every part of the long preparations for each year’s performance. We published the audition schedule and had a thought to take one of the posters into Anchorage to hang in a specific music store. We had never done that before, because we have always had more fine soloists try out than could possibly perform.
On the night of the auditions a young woman walked into the room.  She introduced herself as Catherine, and said she had been a lead soloist with the New York Metropolitan Opera. Her voice was absolutely flawless. I walked up close to her so that only she and I could hear my comments. I suggested that she sing the message of Christ rather than using the music to showcase her voice. She nodded, and what came out of her mouth still gives me chills as I write this. She obviously loved her Savior, and it came through gloriously. She turned off the broad vibrato and operatic style, and just sang for her love of Christ, and it was beyond compare.
This was a small miracle, and might seem more random than miraculous without understanding two things, first is that we were in Wasilla Alaska, which is real close to the end of civilization, and the last place one might expect to find glorious musical talent and superb performances of Handel’s Messiah. Even having lived there for over 30 years, I wouldn’t have expected it, but it happened year after year.
One year prior to this we had a nice Tenor section showing up to practices, but a few days before the performance, all of them called and said they might not be able to perform due to some complication. We met to warm up on the night of the performance – and there were NO tenors. I tried to feel panicked, but the Spirit kept calming me. Others in the chorus asked me what we were going to do about no tenors, because Handel’s Messiah really can’t be performed without tenors. There would be long blank spaces where nobody was singing. It would sound silly.
We took our places on the stage and as the orchestra was warming up, a man walked up to me. He said he had just returned from a mission, and he was familiar with the Messiah, could he sing with us. I asked if he was a tenor. He nodded. I found out later that he is a fantastic tenor, honestly nearly as good as Josh Grobin. As he was walking to the stage, he turned back and asked me if his brother could sing tenor also. His brother was also a very strong tenor. Seconds later, a man with a beard approached. He introduced himself. I knew the name well because I had asked him to sing with us several times, but had never met him. I knew he was fantastic. I welcomed him to the stage with a sense of gratitude and relief. Several minutes from the start of the program a complete stranger walked up to me. He introduced himself as a tenor from Anchorage. He said he had come and listened to our performance several years, and had decided to sing with us because we understood the meaning of the music, and sang with love and Spirit. He was a minister or elder in his congregation in Anchorage and a fine tenor.
In a matter of ten minutes I had six tenors, which is enough, especially when they are that strong.
I have never participated in a performance of Handel’s Messiah when miracles did not happen.
A few years ago we had the opportunity to sing selections from The Messiah at a community nativity display. I asked the group weeks in advance, and most of the chorus and orchestra volunteered to do the additional performance. We reminded them often of the commitment.
On the night of the nativity performance, we met to warm up, and had almost all of the orchestra and chorus, but again – no tenors. I don’t know why tenors are so problematic for me, but I’m always chasing tenors begging like a hungry child.
We warmed up without tenors, and everyone asked what we would do. I said, “I’m not sure. I guess the angels will have to sing tenor.” Everyone laughed kind of nervously, but they had actually experienced angels singing with us. We had a prayer and walked into the hall. As we were walking one of the trumpet players said he could sing tenor. Which did I need most, trumpet or a tenor. I told him to leave his horn in the warm up room. A sister walked beside me and said she loved the tenor part. I told her to give it a try. Still, that only made two sort-of tenors.
Something happened that night I have never done before. This was a performance for members of the community. I felt the Spirit, and after the overture I turned around and faced the audience. I introduced the next selection and told them its significance in Christ’s life. I saw people’s faces light up as they understood the message of Handel’s Messiah for the first time. Because I was acting under inspiration, the audience felt it too, as did the choir and orchestra. When I turned around to face the performers I could almost see the heavens opening behind them as angels joined us.
We began the performance with “For Unto Us a Child is Born”. And when the tenor part came due, I heard a strong, beautiful tenor section. I looked up, and there were only two people singing tenor. Yet, there was this huge tenor sound. I saw other people looking around for the source of so much music. There were only two people singing tenor every time, a trumpeter and an alto. Through every song that evening we heard the angels singing tenor. It was splendid.
This and dozens of other happenings are why I say, I have never participated in a performance of Handle’s Messiah when there were not miracles.
Brother John
Source: unblogmysoul.wordpress.com

I had my own Messiah miracle a number of years ago.  Each Christmas our stake would put together a choir and perform the Messiah.  For some reason I got the idea in my head that I wanted to sing the solo aria "He Was Despised."  While I enjoy singing, I don't have the greatest voice, and I'm definitely an alto.  That piece doesn't go terribly high, though, and since it was a professional performance, I thought maybe I could do it.  It wasn't so much that I wanted to sing a solo, because I very much enjoy singing  harmony, but something in my really wanted to sing THAT solo.  After several years, the opportunity presented itself and I set about to practice it.  For some reason, my voice went very hoarse from the time I was given the part right up until the night of the performance.  Not one single time was I able to practice it and have enough of a voice come out to even be able to get through it.  The choir director, who was in our ward, and a friend of mine, just kept encouraging me along, telling me to pray and ask for help, which, of course, I was already doing.  The night arrived, and my voice had not improved.  I went into the performance praying and fasting.  Just before it came time for my number, my heart started pounding so hard that I could hardly hear anything else.  I was sure others must be able to hear it, or at least see the movement though my clothing.  I got up to sing and the pounding continued.  Then I started to sing, and my voice worked!  My heart pounded through the entire song, so I couldn't even hear myself all that well; I just knew that something was coming out as I sang.  Judging from the comments of people afterward, the number had sounded really good.  The only explanation, of course, is that the Lord sent me the help I needed exactly when I needed it.  I had all but forgotten about that until I read the above post.  How I grateful I am for this, as well as so many other, tender mercies that continually grace my life. 

More Gifts. . .

I continue to read my Kindle version (PC Version, don't yet have the real thing) of One Thousand Gifts, and it continues to inspire to look for gratitude moments.  It is truly one of the most amazing books I have ever read.

24. A 16-year-old son's head on my shoulder as we look at YouTube videos together.
25. A kitchen drawer with the front replaced several years after it fell off.
26.  The husband who, when I said if he'd like to do something for me, he could fix that drawer, had it fixed and back in place in 24 hours (and it only took so long because we were waiting for the glue to dry)
27. Being blessed to be able to play the organ for church without making too many mistakes.
28. A spirit-filled sacrament meeting in which three of my friends spoke and bore humble testimony of Christ.
29. Children's laughter.
30. A working dishwasher.
31. Being able to play the piano well enough to sing songs I like.
32. Being able to play the guitar enough to enjoy it.
33. A mother who taught me to can peaches.  I didn't want to learn, really, but one day, when I was about 16, she walked out the door and told me there was a basket of peaches in the kitchen and that she wanted me to have them canned up when she got home.  I just looked at her like she was crazy, since I'd never done it by myself before.  I told her I didn't know how, figuring that ought to get me off the hook, but she pointed me toward the cookbooks and left.  So I looked it up, and between that, and remembering some from having helped her in times past, I set to work.  By the time she got back I had 7 bottles of peaches canned, and all of them sealed.  From then on, I've always known that if I could find the instructions, I could probably find out pretty much anything I would need to know, and that knowledge has served me well these many years.
34. Carpeted floors.
35. Uncarpeted kitchen and bathroooms.
36. Refrigerators.
37. Freezers.
38. Central heating.
39. Air conditioning.
40. MP3 players.
41. Animals, especially dolphins.
42. I'm grateful to have been able to visit Hawaii.  Not being much of a world traveler, I never really expected to be able to go there, but since being married I've had the chance a couple of times, and I'm happy to have been able to have that peaceful experience.  It's a nice place to get away to for a little while.
43. I am thankful to have been blessed with 8 healthy children, and also for two more who are waiting for us on the other side.
44. Clean drinking water.
45. Running water right in my kitchen.
46. Linoleum.  Oh, wait I already said that one.  With my memory, it's going to be hard not to repeat things here.  Instead of linoleum again (although I really am thankful for it), for #46, I'll say electric light bulbs. That, seriously, has got to be one of the best inventions ever, except when it makes it possible for me to stay up all hours of the night when I should be asleep.  Like now.
47. A stove in my kitchen, so I don't have to build a fire every time I want to heat some food.
48. Trees.
49. Tulips.
50. The scriptures.

The Hot Water Bottle Miracle

I love this story!


THE HOT WATER BOTTLE - A True Story By Helen Roseveare, Missionary to Africa

One night, in Central Africa, I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all that we could do, she died leaving us with a tiny, premature baby and a crying, two-year-old daughter.

We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive. We had no incubator. We had no electricity to run an incubator, and no special feeding facilities. Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts.

A student-midwife went for the box we had for such babies and for the cotton wool that the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly, in distress, to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst. Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates. "...and it is our last hot water bottle!" she exclaimed. As in the West, it is no good crying over spilled milk; so, in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over a burst water bottle. They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways. All right," I said, "Put the baby as near the fire as you safely can; sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. Your job is to keep the baby warm."

The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with many of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle. The baby could so easily die if it got chilled. I also told them about the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died. During the prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt consciousness of our African children. "Please, God," she prayed, "send us a water bottle. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, the baby'll be dead; so, please send it this afternoon." While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added by way of corollary, " ...And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?" As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say, "Amen?" I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that He can do everything: The Bible says so, but there are limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever received a parcel from home. Anyway, if anyone did send a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator!

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time that I reached home, the car had gone, but there, on the veranda, was a large twenty-two pound parcel! I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone; so, I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly. Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then, there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children began to look a little bored. Next, came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas - - that would make a nice batch of buns for the weekend. As I put my hand in again, I felt the...could it really be? I grasped it, and pulled it out. Yes, "A brand-new rubber, hot water bottle!" I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could. Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, "If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!" Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone: She had never doubted! Looking up at me, she asked, "Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?"

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months, packed up by my former Sunday School class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. One of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child -- five months earlier in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it "That afternoon!" "And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." Isaiah 65:24

Helen Roseveare a doctor missionary from England to Zaire, Africa, told this as it had happened to her in Africa. 

The True Story of Rudolph

 **True Story of Rudolph**

A man named Bob May, depressed and brokenhearted, stared out his drafty apartment window into
the chilling December night.


His 4-year-old daughter, Barbara, sat on his lap quietly sobbing.

Bob's wife, Evelyn, was very
sick and he knew she would die.


Little Barbara couldn't understand why her mommy could never come home.

Barbara looked up into her dad's eyes and asked,

"Why isn't Mommy just like everybody else's Mommy?"

Bob's jaw tightened and his eyes welled with tears.  

Her question brought waves of grief, but also of anger.


It had been the story of Bob's life.

Life always had to be different for Bob.  

Small in stature when he was a kid, Bob was often bullied by other boys.  

He was too little at the time to compete in sports.

He was often  called names he'd rather not remember.  

From childhood, Bob was different and never seemed to fit in.


Bob did complete college, married his loving wife and was grateful to get his job as a
copywriter at MONTGOMERY WARD during the  terrible Great Depression.

Then he was blessed with his little  girl.

But it was all short-lived.

Evelyn's bout with cancer stripped  them of all their savings

and now Bob and his daughter were forced to live in a two-room apartment in the
Chicago slums. Evelyn died  just days before Christmas in 1938.


Bob struggled to give hope to his child,

for whom he couldn't even afford to buy a Christmas gift.

But if he couldn't buy a gift, he was determined a make one

- and so he made a storybook!  

Bob had created an animal character in his own mind and told the animal's story to
little Barbara to give her comfort and hope.


Again and again Bob told the story, embellishing it more with each telling.

Who was the character? What was the story all about?


The story Bob May created was his own autobiography in fable form.

The character he created was a misfit outcast like he was.

The name of the character?

A little reindeer named Rudolph, who had a big shiny nose.  

Bob finished the book just in time to give it to his little girl on
Christmas Day. But the story doesn't end there........


The general manager of Montgomery Ward heard about the little storybook and he offered Bob May a nominal fee to purchase the rights to print the book.

Wards went on to print, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"

and distribute it to the children visiting Santa Claus in their stores.

By 1946 Wards had printed and distributed more than six million copies of Rudolph. That same year, a major publisher asked to purchase the rights from Wards,  

to print an updated version of the book.


In an unprecedented gesture of  kindness, the CEO of Wards returned all rights of ownership back to Bob May. The book became a best seller.

Many toy and marketing deals followed and Bob May, now remarried with a growing family, became wealthy from the story he created to comfort
his grieving daughter. But the story doesn't end there either.


Bob's brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, made a song adaptation to Rudolph.

Though the song was turned down by such popular vocalists as

Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore, it was recorded by the
singing cowboy, Gene Autry.

"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" was released in 1949 and became a
phenomenal success, selling more records than any other Christmas song, with the exception of "White Christmas."


The gift of love that Bob May created for his daughter so long ago kept on returning back to bless him again and again.


Bob May learned the lesson, just like his dear friend Rudolph,

that being different isn't so bad..........

In fact, being different can really be a blessing.




The HERO of this story is BOB MAY.
The PATRIOT of this story is MONTGOMERY WARDS !!

The MORAL of this story is THE GIFT OF LOVE .........

The Cab Ride

The Cab Ride

I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print
dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All of the
furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a
cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist
the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way
I would want my mother to be treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked,
"Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued in a

soft voice. "The doctor says I don't have very long." I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once
worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.
She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone

dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the

darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home,

with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her

every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" She asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound 

of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day I
could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us

unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS

REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

What I'm REALLY thankful for!

I probably should have started with these, since if I were listing my blessings in order of importance, as I see them, these would be at the top.  But that isn't the way it turned out.  These next few are the things that are always uppermost in my mind when I think of gratitude, though, so I wanted to get them on list before I go any farther. 

18.  My Savior Jesus Christ.  His atonement and resurrection, and providing the way for me to return to live with my Heavenly Father again.
19.  My membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  I love knowing that the Lord restored His church on this earth to bless his children, and to provide all the ordinances necessary to return to Him.
20.  Temples that let us participate in those ordinances.
21.  A loving and supporting family.  Especially my parents that have remained active in the church and provided me with the opportunities to attend.
22.  My own family with my husband and children, who bless my life every day, and help me learn the lessons I need to learn in this life.
23.  Wonderfully supportive friends, who are always there when I need them.  What would life be like without family and friends? 

Okay, those are my favorite things, but the list will continue. 

Merry Christmas! 

Gratitude, The Secret to a Happy Life

I am reading the most amazing book.  It's called One Thousand Gifts.  I downloaded the PC Kindle application to my computer so that I could read the Kindle version, since the hard copy won't be available for a few weeks yet. It's all about one woman's lessons learned while accepting a challenge to write down one thousand things she is thankful for.  She has an awe-inspiring way with words that reach to the depths of my soul every time I read them.  Because of this book, I've decided that I, too, want to write down one thousand things I'm thankful for, and if I keep the list going on the blog, there's less chance of losing it in my too-full-of-stuff house.  Did that sound like a complaint?  Well, I'm grateful to have this house, so I'll start with that one.

NUMBER ONE:  a house with enough room for 10 people.

I actually decided to start this list while I was in the shower the other day.  Here are a few other things I came up with:

2. HOT running water!  Woohoo!  I remembered back 20+ years to my mission to Argentina, and having to take cold showers, or scalding hot ones, since we never could get those gas flames heaters to work right.  I can stand  in my shower every day and enjoy it at whatever temperature I want (as long as I time it right, and don't do it on Saturday night after the children have had their turns).

3.  Indoor toilets!  Another memory from my mission in Argentina, and one day visiting a family we were working with, and feeling an insuppressible urge.  I ask to use the bathroom.  They all looked at each other a bit uncomfortably, but they pointed me toward a little building toward the back of their yard area.  I went in and found myself staring at nothing more than a hole in the ground, and me standing there in my dress.  Well, I'll spare you any further details, but suffice it to say, I am happy for indoor toilets high enough off the ground to be able to sit comfortably.

4. Soap--just love that feeling of being clean!
5. Shampoo--my hair loves it, too.
6. Fluffy, clean towels to dry off with. 
7. An enclosed shower.  Much nicer than having to shower in the same area with the toilet, and then squeegee the floor afterward. 
8. Mirrors that let me show mercy to the world by trying to look better than I otherwise might before heading out into it.
9.  Combs, brushes, curling irons.  (If I get to 997 and can't think of anything else, I'll split this one up.  I'm not worried that I'll have to, though.)
10.  Linoleum to step out of the shower onto. 
11.  Better yet--a rug or towel on top of it. 
12.  Toilet paper.  That could almost be first on the list.
13. Today, with a foot of snow having fallen in the past 24 hours, I'm grateful that the Lord is seeing fit to bless us with moisture.  And it's so beautiful!  (I can say that now, after having to shovel so much of it to get the van out.)
Yesterday I ended up scraping the car off from the first 1/2 of that eventual foot of snow, and I could feel myself feeling a little whiny about it.  I remembered what I have been reading about gratitude, so I decided that rather than let my thoughts go into complain mode, I'd try gratitude mode instead. I said I was grateful for the moisture, as I just mentioned, but I also listed:
14.  Warm gloves that are keeping my hands warm.
15.  A warm coat and boots, for the same reason.
16.  I was grateful that it had stayed above freezing so that the snow came off easily without having to be chipped away.  It also made the job not be so cold, also.

I am beginning to think that when the scriptures tell us to keep a prayer in our hearts, they might mean to spend our days thanking and praising the Lord for our many blessings.  Sometimes there are things that we feel the need to ask for, either for ourselves or for others, and when those times arise, certainly those prayers are appropriate.  I find that the more I focus on gratitude, the less I find to complain about. 

So there's the start to my list of 1000 gifts.  It's kind of like having Heavenly Father tell me Merry Christmas!

Christmas Eve 1881

The following heart-warming Christmas story was written by Rian B. Anderson.*
It was Christmas Eve 1881.  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 it was 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 side boards 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.
The author of this story is uncertain. Some list “unknown” as the author, one lists Rian B. Anderson.