CHRISTMAS DAY 23 – SILENT NIGHT

Although there are many versions of the Silent Night story out there, this is by far my favorite. The video, from when Walter Cronkite joined the Mormon Tabernacle Choir a few year ago is included at the bottom.

Silent Night, Holy Night — as told by Walter Cronkite

The 1900’s, the final century of the recent millennium, brought unprecedented possibilities and promise. The children of these hundred years would see more improvement in the human condition than ever before in the world’s history. Advances in medicine, science, and industry would all but eradicate disease, extend human life, open a dialogue among the peoples of the earth, and lift them into the vast reaches of space.

   But these hardly seemed like possibilities as the Christmas of 1914 drew near. The nations of Europe were at war. Anxious to expand and defend their borders, they summoned their best and brightest to the battlefront. Young men answered by the millions.

   A nineteen-year-old German boy left his job in London to enlist in the German army. English boys working and studying in Hamburg and Paris returned to London, put on their uniforms, and went back to fire upon former friends. Secretary of War, Lord Kirchener, expanded the British army overnight by allowing schoolmates to enlist together.

   The tragedy of these battalions was no more evident than at Somme, France. Hundreds of villages on both sides lost almost all their young men in a single battle. The little paybook that every British soldier carried included a last will and testament. Thousands of these booklets were collected from the bodies of young boys, many reading simply, “I leave everything to my mother.”

   With hardly a backward glance, the promise of youth was poured into the blind and futile aggression known as the Great War, World War 1.

   The new century brought a new kind of warfare. Field commanders quickly realized that digging in was the only way to survive the sweep of machine-gun fire.

   The German army had marched across Belgium before being stopped at Flanders Field. Some sixty yards away, British, French and Belgian troops languished in trenches infested with rats and lice; pelted with freezing rain and shrapnel. As temperatures dropped, disease took hold. Snipers picked off any who raised their heads above the earthen wall. The war was but four months old, each side losing thousands a day, both to bullets and that silent, common enemy: influenza.

   Between the opposing trenches was an area about the width of a football field: No Man’s Land. Littered with barbed wire and frozen corpses, it was a sobering reminder of what the future might bring. Soldiers who survived later recalled their dead brothers being gathered up and stacked like cords of wood. By war’s end, over ten million would be lost.

   Not surprisingly, given the circumstances, most of the soldiers were religious; and many were Christian. On Sundays, communion was passed in trenches on both sides, often to the sound of church bells ringing in nearby villages. The occasional hymn was sung, and youthful voices were heard across enemy lines.

   By December, the war slowed and hopes for a quick resolution faded away. As the soldiers contemplated their desperate situation, nights grew long and hearts yearned for peace. December twenty-third. A group of German soldiers quietly moved to the ruins of a bombed-out monastery. There, they held their Christmas service. Later on that night, a few Christmas trees, Tannenbaums as they were called, began to appear along the German fortifications, their tiny candles flickering in the night.

   Across the way, British soldiers took an interest in those lights as they sang together the carols of their youth. Word spread, and heads peeked cautiously over sandbags at the now thousands of Tannenbaums glowing like Christmas stars.

   Two British officers ventured over to the German line and, against orders, arranged a Christmas truce. But the negotiation was a mere formality by then. Up and down the trenches men from both sides already had begun crossing the line to join the celebration.

   Lieutenant Sir Edward Hulse “assaulted” the enemy with music. In a letter to his mother he wrote, “We are going to give the enemy every conceivable song…from carols to Tipperary.”

   The Germans responded with a Christmas concert of their own. It was not long before the cold air rang with everything from “Good King Wenceslas” to “Auld Lang Syne.”

   For the next two days, those tidings continued to spring from the hearts of common men who shared the common bond of Christmas.

   Further down the line, a German violinist stood atop his parapet, framed against the skeletons of bare trees and shattered fortifications. Delicately perched in this desolate landscape, his cold fingers conveyed the poignant beauty of Handel’s Largo.

   Whatever the spirit of Christmas had been before that hour, it was now, above all, the spirit of hope, of peace.

   A British war correspondent reported that later the soldiers heard a clear voice singing the beloved French carol, “O Holy Night.” The singer: Victor Granier of the Paris Opera. The night watch must have lifted their eyes toward the heavens as they heard his plaintive call.

   Christmas Day dawned over the muddy fields, and both sides cautiously picked their way through the barbed wire. Side by side they buried their dead.

   A German officer known only as Thomas gave Lieutenant Hulse a Christmas gift, a Victoria cross and letter which had belonged to an English captain. Lieutenant Hulse responded by giving the German officer his silk scarf. One German retrieved a photograph of himself in uniform and asked his former enemies to post it to his sister in Liverpool.

   Men who had shot at each other only days before gathered in a sacred service for their fallen brothers. Prayers were offered, and the twenty-third Psalm was read:

   The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

   He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

   He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

   Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

   Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

   Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

   Nineteen-year-old Arthur Pelham-Burn, who hoped to study for the ministry after the war ended, remembered: “The Germans formed up on one side, the English on the other, the officers standing in front, every head bared. Yes, I think it is a sight one will never see again.”

   As the Christmas of 1914 drew to a close, soldiers who had sung together, played together, and prayed together, returned to their trenches. They must have felt reluctant to let the common ground between them become No Man’s Land again. But as the darkness fell around them, a lone voice floated across the few yards of earth on which they had stood together. In the true spirit of Christmas, one voice, then another, joined in. Soon, the whole world seemed to be singing. And, for a brief moment, the sound of peace was a carol every soul knew by heart.

   Silent night! Holy night!

   All is calm, all is bright

   Round you virgin mother and child.

   Holy infant, so tender and mild,

   Sleep in heavenly peace;

   Sleep in heavenly peace.

   Silent night! Holy night!

   Shepherds quake at the sight!

   Glories stream from heaven afar;

   Heav’nly hosts sing Alleluia!

   Christ, the Savior, is born!

   Christ, the Savior is born!

   Silent night! Holy night!

   Son of God, love’s pure light

   Radiant beams from thy holy face,

   With the dawn of redeeming grace,

   Jesus, Lord, at thy birth;

   Jesus, Lord, at thy birth.

   And that’s the way it was, one silent night almost a hundred years ago; and that’s the way it can be as each of us embrace the message of that silent, holy night.

CHRISTMAS DAY 22 – BERT’S CHRISTMAS COAT

BERT’S CHRISTMAS COAT – by Gena Roe

My mother, Lela Bodily Allen, was born April 30, 1916 – and before the year was out, her father had gone to Mexico, got a divorce and came back to inform Grandma that they were divorced. Mom was the youngest of 6 children (2 died as infants), and in 1916 women didn’t even have the right to vote, so Grandma and the four children, ages 10 to 6-months, moved back in with her parents.

   It was a difficult time. Grandma did what work she could get, mostly cleaning, cooking, and laundry. A few years later, Grandma’s sister Ruth passed away, leaving her husband to raise their four children also alone, as a widower. My great-grandmother, seeing two single parents each struggling to raise these grandchildren on their own, convinced them to marry. So only a few months after her sister had died, my grandma married her brother-in-law, Ruth’s husband Frank, to raise their combined family of 8 living children together.

   It was 1923, and raising a large family was challenging – and they faced a number of difficult situations. For my mom, her uncle was now her step-father, her cousins now her siblings. And to make things worse, “Uncle Frank” (as mom always called him) was a very difficult man – and in the years I knew him I never saw him smile, and in all the years since have not ever heard one happy story about him. He treated “his” children different than “her” children, and with 10 mouths to feed (and two more children that came along soon afterward) he lived a life where he so obviously carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

   My mom, as the youngest, spent much time helping with the two little boys, her half-brothers/half-cousins, that came along a few years later – and had a particular fondness for her littlest brother, Bert. Bert was born in 1929, and although things had been tough before, the Great Depression hit the little farming town of Preston, Idaho, particularly hard – and this assembled family of 12 especially so.

pic: Bert, enlisted for Korean War

   As Winter 1932 approached, Mom’s oldest sister Wanda (now grown and out of the house), sent Lela a new coat for Christmas. Mom adored her sister Wanda and loved her new winter coat. Seeing that Little Bert didn’t have a coat at all, Mom took her old coat to school, and cut it up to sew a new coat for Bert’s Christmas present that year. She worked on it for weeks, sneaking measurements of Little Bert when no one was looking. And with a little coaching and help from her teacher, Lela got the coat ready for Bert’s Christmas. It was not only one of the few happy stories my mother had of her childhood, but it helped me understand why she always had such a special place in her heart for Bert.

   A few weeks ago I was looking for my winter coat, and in my search came across a number of my own old coats that I don’t wear anymore. I took the handful of extra coats that I had, decided to add a few more to the pile, and a few more after that – and ended up with a pretty substantial pile of coats to donate, especially now that the weather is turning into that bitter cold that mid-winter always brings.

   I am grateful for having such an abundance in my life that I don’t have to wonder for a coat or gloves. And I am grateful for a wonderful mother who was such an example of giving and selflessness and who taught me the importance of something as simple as a warm winter coat.

CHRISTMAS DAY 21 – THE MAN WHO MISSED CHRISTMAS

As a single woman that lives alone, whose parents are gone now, and who never had children – there is one particular Christmas story that especially touches my heart. This past year as I flew hundreds of thousands of miles, literally getting on a plane every few days, I often had the thought: “If this plane went down, it would likely be days before anyone realized I was gone.” No one ever knew my itinerary. And although I have great family and friends, no one in my life was close enough to notice the many comings and goings of my life.

   I know a number of my friends who sneak into their bathrooms to have just a few moments of peace and quiet alone. But there are also many singles who spend more hours, days, and weeks alone that we can possibly count. I know many who, like me, are so grateful to be invited along to a family dinner or outing – even when it’s complete insanity – because there is truly something comforting in the chaos, something peaceful in the pandemonium.

   What a blessing it is in my life that my sister and her kids invite me for the holiday celebrations and special family events – something I am more truly grateful for than they can possibly imagine. But there are also so many who are not so fortunate as me at the holidays, and many more who long for the association and companionship of inclusion throughout the year.

THE MAN WHO MISSED CHRISTMAS – by J. Edgar Park

It was Christmas Eve; and, as usual, George Mason was the last to leave the office. He walked over to a massive safe, spun the dials, swung the heavy door open. Making sure the door would not close behind him, he stepped inside.

   A square of white cardboard was taped just above the topmost row of strongboxes. On the card a few words were written. George Mason stared at those words, remembering…..

   Exactly one year ago he had entered this self-same vault. And then, behind his back, slowly, noiselessly, the ponderous door swung shut. He was trapped—entombed in the sudden and terrifying dark.

   He hurled himself at the unyielding door, his hoarse cry sounding like an explosion. Through his mind flashed all the stories he had heard of men found suffocated in time vaults. No clock controlled this mechanism; the safe would remain locked until it was opened from the outside. Tomorrow morning.

   Then realization hit him. No one would come tomorrow—tomorrow was Christmas.

   Once more he flung himself at the door, shouting wildly, until he sank on his knees exhausted. Silence came, high-pitched, singing silence that seemed deafening. More than thirty-six hours would pass before anyone came—thirty-six hours in a steel box three feet wide, eight feet long, seven feet high. Would the oxygen last? Perspiring and breathing heavily, he felt his way around the floor. Then, in the far right-hand corner, just above the floor, he found a small circular opening. Quickly he thrust his finger into it and felt, faint but unmistakable, a cool current of air.

   The tension release was so sudden that he burst into tears. But at last he sat up. Surely he would not have to stay trapped for the full thirty-six hours. Somebody would miss him. But who? He was unmarried and lived alone. The maid who cleaned his apartment was just a servant; he had always treated her as such. He had been invited to spend Christmas Eve with his brother’s family; but the children got on his nerves and expected presents.

   A friend had asked him to go to a home for elderly people on Christmas Day and play the piano—George Mason was a good musician. But he had made some excuse or other; he had intended to sit at home, listening to some new recordings he was giving himself.

   George Mason dug his nails into the palms of his hands until the pain balanced the misery in his mind. Nobody would come and let him out, nobody, nobody, nobody….

   Miserably the whole of Christmas Day went by, and the succeeding night.

   On the morning after Christmas the head clerk came into the office at the usual time, opened the safe, then went on into his private office.

   No one saw George Mason stagger out into the corridor, run to the water cooler, and drink great gulps of water. No one paid any attention to him as he left and took a taxi home.

   Then he shaved, changed his wrinkled clothes, ate breakfast and returned to his office where his employees greeted him casually.

   That day he met several acquaintances and talked to his own brother. Grimly, the truth closed in on George Mason. He had vanished from human society during the great festival of brotherhood; no one had missed him at all.

   Reluctantly, George Mason began to think about the true meaning of Christmas. Was it possible that he had been blind all these years with selfishness, indifference, pride? Was not giving, after all, the essence of Christmas because it marked the time God gave His son to the world?

   All through the year that followed, with little hesitant deeds of kindness, with small, unnoticed acts of unselfishness, George Mason tried to prepare himself….

   Now, once more, it was Christmas Eve.

   Slowly he backed out of the safe, closed it. He touched its grim steel face lightly, almost affectionately, and left the office.

   There he goes now in his black overcoat and hat, the same George Mason as a year ago. Or is it? He walks a few blocks, then flags a taxi, anxious not to be late. His nephews are expecting him to help them trim the tree. Afterwards, he is taking his brother and his sister-in-law to a Christmas play. Why is he so happy? Why does this jostling against others, laden as he is with bundles, exhilarate and delight him?

   Perhaps the card has something to do with it, the card he taped inside his office safe last New Years’ Day. On the card is written, in George Mason’s own hand:

   “To love people, to be indispensable somewhere, that is the purpose of life. That is the secret of happiness.”