Sharing Christmas Read online

  What I didn't miss were crowded malls and throngs of Christmas shoppers. The pressure of parties and programs was gone. The stress of baking and cooking holiday goodies and then overeating was gladly given up. The open market at Nsukka, where we did our shopping, was much the same as usual during the holiday season. The food on our table was about the same on Christmas Day as it was on any other day of the week— nourishing and healthful and consisting of fresh fruit, greens, fish or poultry, and pounded yams.

  In addition to weekly worship services held in our home, we joined our Nigerian friends during the holidays, attending religious services in large attractive buildings on campus of both Catholic and Protestant faiths, where appropriate music and messages from the pulpit commemorated the birth of Jesus Christ. Attending these services were students, faculty members, and towns- people dressed both in Western clothes and colorful native costumes—the women wearing elegant dresses, wrappers, and turbans, and men in embroidered shirts or nicely tailored suits. Their music was enthusiastic and rousing.

  A Christmas pageant was presented by students at the campus theater building. The nativity scene included a white baby doll as Jesus, with the other actors native Nigerians. I wept as we sang with them the familiar carols and heard the choir present an excerpt from Handel's Messiah.

  Another colorful church our family liked to attend, an apostolic church, was located in the bush area surrounding the college town. This congregation met in a simple one-room structure with thatched roof, plastered walls, and packed, red dirt floors. We appreciated the glassless windows that allowed air to move through the room as we sat on crude wooden benches with the others, usually women sitting on one side and men on the other. Clucking chickens punctuated the sermon, and barefoot children ran in and out of open doorways. The drone of flies and goats bleating blended with the soft movement of hand fans. We were moved by the lively sermons and drum-and-gong accompaniments to simple dancing and fervent singing. But no matter what denomination, these Nigerian Christians were deeply devoted and committed to unselfish service and family cohesiveness as they celebrated Christmas.

  There would be no snow in this land of perpetual summer so near the equator. Christmas fell during the harmattan season, distinguished by hazy gray skies and dry windy weather. It did not rain a drop from early November until late April. The harmattan winds off the Sahara Desert dropped temperatures into the low seventies. We needed thin blankets at night, purchased from the local open market.

  Our Christmas shopping took place on a road trip from Nsukka to Lagos. We chose gifts for each other, native art such as bronze figures cast by a man on the streets of Benin, wood-carvings from a peddler in Onitsha, and a talking drum my husband had bartered from a Hausa we met in the countryside.

  More than their own gifts, the children were excited about the gifts they had purchased for our Nigerian steward, Cyprian Ugwu, and his wife Veronica, and their babies, Innocence and Celestine. We had grown fond of this little family who lived in quarters in the corner of our small compound, or yard. Every morning except Sunday, Cyprian would softly pad into our kitchen and begin his day's work by preparing breakfast for our family. He killed and plucked chickens, swept and scrubbed floors, boiled drinking water, washed vegetables in chlorine water, scrubbed clothes and hung them on bushes to dry, and interpreted the Igbo language and culture for us. At first we prepared lemon meringue pies, spaghetti, and other Western foods. We soon learned it was too difficult to purchase the provisions for these dishes and instead ate more healthy Nigerian food such as egusi soup and pounded yam.

  Kent played with the Ugwu children in the compound when he wasn't attending school.

  Our four children were enrolled in Nigerian public schools, each of them the only American and onyocha (white person) in their classes. The three older children wore white uniforms, and Kent wore a uniform of navy blue shorts and a checked shirt.

  Our children noticed that Celestine and Innocence didn't have shoes to wear, even though Nigerian children often go barefoot. They wanted their little friends to have shoes, so they traveled to the marketplace and purchased small leather sandals, wrapped them in brown paper, and presented them to the Ugwu children on Christmas Eve. The gift was appreciated as Cyprian repeated, “Thank you! Thank you! God bless you! God bless you!” Celestine and Innocence loved the sandals and wore them continuously from that day on.

  As Christmas Day drew to a close, I realized how happy I was. Our own family had never felt such a spirit of unity and joy. What a privilege it was for us to be in this land and learn of our black brothers and sisters! We came to appreciate the love and unity of their families, the sacrifice and importance they place on education, and the desire they have for peace and understanding in the world.

  It was in this country, so different from my own, that I began to realize how the Savior must love and accept all people throughout the world, no matter what color their skin, what clothes they wear, what kind of house they live in, or what language they speak. His message of love and peace was equally important to my Nigerian friends as to my friends back home. My all-white mentality had changed to a kaleidoscope of different colors and an appreciation of the beauty of the Nigerian people. This was the message I received that Christmas—the Christmas I remember best.

  THE THREE KINGS

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Three Kings came riding from far away,

  Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;

  Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

  And they traveled 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 wasnear

  Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

  Three caskets they bore on their saddlebows,

  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 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, and 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 gray 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.

  GIVING, SHARING, AND REMEMBERING

  Elder Carlos E. Asay

  Each yuletide season brings to my mind a flood of memorable experiences. However, three of those experiences stand out like lampposts in the chambers of my memory. One involved giving and a young woman by the name of Emily, another centered on sharing and a family bicycle, and a third focused upon remembering and an old Armenian tradition called “the burning of the calendar.”

  EMILY AND GIVING

  Emily, a fifteen-year-old daughter of a stake president, sat across the breakfast table from me. It was a few weeks before Christmas and the home was adorned with a Christmas tree and other traditional decorations. Some of the lively mealtime conversation with family members was about school, the stake conference, the delicious food being served, Santa Claus, and anticipated gifts. As the meal ended, Emily asked, “Elder Asay, if Christ were here with us today, what would you give him?”

  I was caught off guard, surprised by the thought-provoking nature of the question. One does not often receive from a teenager an inquiry so timely and of such significance. When I had collected my senses, I responded with these lines from the poet 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.

  I shall never approach another Christmas season without thinking of Emily and her question. Christmas is about Christ and giving. He gave us the precious gifts of immortality and the prospects of eternal life. Surely we owe our hearts and more to him in return for his infinite goodness.

  A FAMILY BICYCLE AND SHARING

  My mother and father were not wealthy people. They possessed many things that money cannot buy, but, as to the things of the world, their possessions were precious few. Therefore, Christmas was a challenging time. The issue for them was always, “What can we afford to give our six children this year?”

  On one particular Christmas morning we six children, on signal from our parents, bounded out of bed and raced into the living room to see what Santa Claus had brought us. All of the stockings were full of nuts, fruits, and candy. And we observed a few personal items like gloves and handkerchiefs. But there were no large toys or balls or skates of the usual variety. In the center of the room, however, stood a new red bicycle with a card attached. The card read: “To all the children.”

  It was not an easy thing for six active young-sters—four boys and two girls—to schedule the use of a single bicycle. But we did, and we learned to share! Christmas is for sharing, especially when the shared gift is received from loving parents who give freely of their meager resources.

  THE BURNING OF THE CALENDAR AND REMEMBERING

  Years ago, I was introduced to a wonderful Armenian tradition called “the burning of the calendar.” I was serving as a full-time missionary in the old Palestine-Syrian Mission with headquarters in Beirut, Lebanon. The setting was the palatial home of a wealthy merchant in Alexandria, Egypt, where approximately one hundred people had gathered to end the year and to begin another.

  The party began early as the host family and guests enjoyed a sumptuous dinner consisting of exotic foods and a wide variety of drinks, including milk for me. People ate and talked and listened to entertainers for several hours. No one, however, became boisterous or unruly during the evening; all showed tremendous respect for the gracious merchant and his home.

  As midnight approached, the dining ceased and the mood of the group changed noticeably. I wondered what was going to happen. Quietly, even reverently, the host and his family led the group into a nearby drawing room. No verbal commands were given. Everyone moved as if drawn by a strong, unseen power. I tagged along behind the others, not understanding what was taking place.

  Once inside the drawing room, I raised on tiptoe to see over the crowd. I saw our host's mother, the family matriarch, seated in a soft chair surrounded by her children, grandchildren, and invited guests. She was a beautiful old woman with snow-white hair and an angelic countenance. No one spoke; I hardly breathed. I have rarely been in a place or among people outside of the temple where the atmosphere was more solemn or sacred.

  Then, just before the stroke of twelve, the butler entered with a large silver tray in his hands. On the tray was a colorful Armenian calendar of the year that was coming to a close. The old woman slowly struck a match and lighted the paper. In perfect silence, we all watched as the burning calendar symbolized the end of the year.

  I expected bedlam to break out and the usual New Year's shouts to fill the room. But there were no shouts or wild demonstrations. Another servant entered from the other side of the room. He carried another tray with another colorful calendar on full display. The old woman took from the tray the calendar of the new year and showed it to the group at the stroke of midnight. The timing was perfect.

  I thought to myself, now comes the explosion! It didn't. I saw the old woman whisper something to her son, who stood nearby. He in turn whispered to another, and the word passed in this fashion until the wave of whispers reached me. “The lady,” said my companion, “knows that you are a minister of the Lord Jesus Christ, and she wonders if you would be willing to lead the group in a New Year's prayer.” Though somewhat stunned by the invitation, I said that I would be honored to give the prayer, providing I could give it in my own language. (I feared that my command of the Armenian language was too limited for me to do the occasion justice.)

  My response was conveyed by the wave of whispers back to the old woman. To my further surprise, another message was sent to me. My companion explained: “The old lady said that you should pray in your native language. She said that God understands all languages and that we will know what comes from your heart. She also said that you should thank God for the blessings received this past year and ask for his continued blessings in the year ahead.”

  I prayed in behalf of the group and felt the presence of the Holy Spirit.

  Time will never erase the memory of that sacred occasion with friends who remembered God first and last—at the beginning of a new year and the close of the old.

  Yes, the yuletide season is a time of giving, sharing, and remembering. God bless us to treasure all the priceless gifts related to the righteous traditions of our lives.

  MARY'S VISION

  Marilyn Arnold

  I sit here,

  2000 years away,

  gazing out blinded windows

  trying to see—

  past the dirtying snow

  and the thickening fog

  to that moment in Nazareth

  when Gabriel came in blinding light

  to ayoung woman

  (I was once a young woman)

  and said, “Hail, thou art


  highly favored, the Lord is with thee:

  blessed art thou among women.”

  And then he announced that she

  would conceive and bear the Son

  of God, the Redeemer of the world—

  that God, the Father, would father

  her child, and that her child

  would be her Lord and God.

  Luke says she was “troubled,”

  and apparently afraid.

  Troubled. What a burden of meaning

  for a single word.

  She had read the prophecies,

  she knew a virgin would conceive

  and bear the Holy King of Israel,

  but she could not conceive of the event

  nor of herself as that virgin. “

  How shall this be, seeing

  I know not a man?”

  I labor to reconstruct the moment,

  to fathom her mind's first incredulous

  response to the news. Troubled,

  Luke says. Indeed.

  Why me? I cannot do this thing.

  Ah, God, let me sleep and then wake

  to discover this a dream,

  to find this angelis merely

  a strange cast of light.

  Insubstantial. Nothing to be heeded.

  Let yesterday return, when all my mind

  was full only of Joseph and our marriage.

  Joseph! Ah, Joseph!

  How will I tell him? Will he believe?

  And then Gabriel interrupting,

  answering her fear and

  her stuttering heart:

  “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee,

  and the power of the Highest shall

  overshadow thee... . For with God

  nothing shall be impossible.”

  And she, knowing it is so,

  knowing she is to be the vessel of

  first deliverance,and He of second,

  acquiesces, drawing strength from obedience:

  “Behold, the handmaid of the Lord;