Merry Christmas! In thinking about what I wanted to share, I had said before the next thing we would talk about would be the fruits of the spirit. But if Christmas had never occurred, there would be no fruits of the spirit. We would still be lost in our sin.
In celebration , I would like to share parts of an old book. When I was very sick, my dear husband gave me this book during the Christmas of 1967. This book encouraged me to get well because it reminded me that Jesus gave me 3 treasures that I would love all my days. My 2 babies, Phil and Stephen and the third is my husband, Steve, my forever love.
I would like to share these next stories with you from my heart:
A Candy-maker's Witness
A candy maker in Indiana wanted to make a candy that would be a witness, so he made the Christmas Candy Cane. He incorporated several symbols from the birth, ministry, and death of Jesus Christ.
He began with a stick of pure white, hard candy. White to symbolize the Virgin Birth and the sinless nature of Jesus, and hard to symbolize the Solid Rock, the foundation of the Church, and firmness of the promises of God.
The candy maker made the candy in the form of a "J" to represent the precious name of Jesus, who came to earth as our Savior. It could also represent the staff of the "Good Shepherd" with which He reaches down into the ditches of the world to lift out the fallen lambs who, like all sheep, have gone astray.
Thinking that the candy was somewhat plain, the candy maker stained it with red stripes. He used three small stripes to show the stripes of the scourging Jesus received by which we are healed. The large red stripe was for the blood shed by Christ on the cross so that we could have the promise of eternal life.
Unfortunately, the candy became known as a Candy Cane -- a meaningless decoration seen at Christmas time. But the meaning is still there for those who "have eyes to see and ears to hear." Every time you see a Candy Cane, remember the Wonder of Jesus and His Great Love that came down at Christmas, and that His Love remains the ultimate and dominant force in the universe today.
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The Legend of the Christmas Tree
There is a legend from the early days of Christianity in England tells the story of a Christian monk who was trying to spread Christianity among the Druids. One day, surrounded by a group of his converts, he struck down a huge oak tree, which, in the Druid religion, was an object of worship. As it fell to the ground, the oak tree split into four pieces and from its center sprung up a fir tree.
The monk told the Druids, "This little tree shall be your Holy Tree tonight. It is a wood of peace, for your houses are built of fir. It's the sign of an endless life, for its leaves are evergreen. See how it points toward the heavens? Let this be called the tree of the Christ Child. Gather about it, not in the wilderness, but in your homes. There it will be surrounded with loving gifts and rites of kindness." And according to the legend, that is the origin of one of our loveliest Christmas symbols - the Christmas tree.
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Silent Night! Holy Night!
The origin of the Christmas carol we know as Silent Night was a poem that was written in 1816 by an Austrian priest called Joseph Mohr.
On Christmas Eve in 1818 in the small alpine village called Oberndorf it is reputed that the organ at St. Nicholas Church had broken. Joseph Mohr gave the poem of Silent Night (Stille Nacht) to his friend Franz Xavier Gruber and the melody for Silent Night was composed with this in mind. The music to Silent Night was therefore intended for a guitar and the simple score was finished in time for Midnight Mass. Silent Night is the most famous Christmas carol of all time!
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O Little Town of Bethlehem
Rector Phillips Brooks (1835-1903) of Philadelphia, wrote the words to O Little Town of Bethlehem in 1868, following a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He was inspired by the view of Bethlehem from the hills of Palestine especially at night time hence the lyrics of O Little Town of Bethlehem. His church organist Lewis Redner (1831-1908) wrote the melody to O Little Town of Bethlehem for the Sunday school children's choir.
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Francis of Assisi and the First Christmas Creche
It was the bitter winter of 1223, and Francis was living in a little rock-hewn cave, close to the village of Greccio, in the Italian province of Umbria. Here, he was very much alone, praying and meditating. As it was drawing near Christmas, he pondered over the wonderful story of the Incarnation. A great desire took possession of him, to bring this message home to the hearts of the villagers, and so all were asked to come to the village church at midnight on Christmas Eve. Full of curiosity, they obeyed. All came from far and near, picking their way by the light of lanterns, up the steep hillside to the church.
There they found a comer of the Church which had been transformed unto a stable, strewn with clean, dry straw, and in a crude little wooden crib, lay a tiny sleeping figure of the bambino, wrapped in swaddling clothes, much like the Holy Child must have peacefully slept, on that first Christmas Eve, twelve hundred years before.
In awestruck remembrance, the Peasants knelt in adoration. After mass was sung and Francis himself had read from the Gospel, the little congregation streamed out into the frosty night air, and took their way homeward, their hearts filled with a mysterious wonder and the song of the angels still ringing in their ears - "Glory to God in the Highest and on earth peace to men of goodwill."
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"The Three Kings"
A Christmas poem by Longfellow
Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.
The star was so beautiful, large and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.
Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of the night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.
"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews."
And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
We know of no King but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, who cannot wait.
And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king."
So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the grey of morn;
Yes, it stopped --it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David, where Christ was born.
And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.
And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human, but divine.
His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.
They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body's burying.
And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone,
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David's throne.
Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.
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by Christina Rossetti
What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a Wise Man,
I would do my part,
Yet what can I give Him,
-Give my heart!
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17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting. It was his turn to lead the discussion so he sat down and wrote. He showed the essay, titled "The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed out the door. "I wowed 'em." he later told his father, Bruce. "It's a killer, It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also was the last. Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School. Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them - the crepe paper that had adorned his locker during his senior football season, notes from classmates and teachers, his homework.
Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son had described his view of heaven. "It makes such an impact that people want to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore said.
Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, - the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.
Brian seemed to excel at everything he did. He was an honor student. He told his parents he loved them "a hundred times a day," Mrs. Moore said. He was a star wide receiver for the Teary's Valley Football team and had earned a four-year scholarship to Capital University in Columbus because of his athletic and academic abilities. He took it upon himself to learn how to help a fellow student who used a wheelchair at school. During one homecoming ceremony, Brian walked on his tiptoes so that the girl he was escorting wouldn't be embarrassed about being taller than him.
He adored his kid brother, Bruce, now 14. He often escorted his grandmother, Evelyn Moore, who lives in Columbus, to church. "I always called him the "deep thinker", Evelyn said of her eldest grandson.
Two years after his death, his family still struggles to understand why Brian was taken from them. They find comfort at the cemetery where Brian is buried, just a few blocks from their home. They visit daily. A candle and dozens of silk and real flowers keep vigil over the grave site.
The Moore's framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him again someday." Mrs. Moore said. "It just hurts so bad now."
The Room
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.
As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Brian Moore." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.
And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger," "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents."
I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.
When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I have listened to," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!"
In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.
And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep.
Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again.
He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no, " as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.
He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards.
I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" Phil 4:13
"For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life" John 3:16
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Our Lord is with us at all times through all situations in our lives that we did not forsee.
But I pray as I have this privilege to talk to you that you will always, no matter what, remember that we have two commandments:
1. Love the Lord our God with all our heart, our mind and our soul.
2. To love one another as Christ loves us.
You cannot do the second without being humble before God, loving Him, praising Him, studying His word and living it out. The the Holy Spirit of God is in complete control of us and we will obey the second commandment without even realizing it. Be conscious of the people you meet because the Lord give them to you to love.
My husband took me to Walmart the other day in my wheelchair. He had to leave me and the buggy to try to find a gift. I decided to try to push the buggy while in the wheelchair. Naturally that can't be done! A middle-aged man asked if he could help me. Simple incident isn't it? No! No! It was MY opportunity to love, thank and encourage him. I told him in the end that he had completed a random act of kindness and we both realized taht only the Holy Spirit of God and our Savior put us in each other's lives.
Put Jesus first as we celebrated Christmas. We have always had the story of baby Jesus read in our family. Each piece of the nativity scene is chosen in advance by the children. As that item is mentioned during the story, the child choses where it belongs in the scene. Afterwards, a birthday cake is brought out and we sing Happy Birthday to Jesus and allow the smallest child to blow out the candle on the cake. The reason I tell you this is because I never realized the importance of that act of worship to my children until Stephen, who is now a grown man, told me the other day that was the most exciting thing for him at Christmas and he listened carefully to the story of the birth of Jesus so he wouldn't miss the time to place his piece where he wanted to put it. You don't have to be a parent to do this, but his comment showed me that the true spirit of Christmas was burned into his heart from the time that he was little.
We all can share Jesus so simply by stating to each one we meet what a wonderful gift God gave and wish them a very blessed Christmas. When you meet the Lord, how thick will YOUR file be in the box of people you shared your faith with? That it the greatest gift we could ever give anyone ever! Let's recommitt ourselves to being sensative to the needs of others and be willing to share our faith. Don't be shy. Jesus will be so proud of you. This is my goal for the rest of my life. It's amazing the number of people Christ puts in my path even being disabled. As I witness I have so many new friends now. Jesus says that when He calls us to do something, He gives us the words and the strength to be obidient to Him.
Oh what a gift that is to us! I pray for all of you even though I don't know some of you. But as the old song says, "Let Us Be Christian Soldiers". I know you will all have a blessed Christmas if you determine within yourselves that Christ will be honored in your home.
I love all of you. I really do, even though we don't all know each other. But God's love has been put in my heart for you.
Let's always pray for each other and the needs of others.
In Christ's Love,
Chalma
