‘The Ultimate Christmas Gift’
“Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.” —Dr. Seuss
By Susan Jarvis Bryant
This gift winks in the sparkle of the star That tops the twinkling tree with spangled joy __In honor of His boy— The one who drew three Magi from afar, And shepherds from their tasks and toils to gaze __In wonderment Upon a child more worthy of our praise Than all the jewels strewn in the firmament.
This gift rings out in carols choirs sing Of Bethlehem, a lowly cattle shed, __A manger for a bed; Of scintillating angels welcoming The Word made precious flesh this holy day— __A blessing sent From Heaven—salvation cast our way— A golden frankincense and myrrh event.
This gift lifts hoodwinked hearts to realms above The toy-stuffed sled and red-nosed reindeer tales, __To truth that never fails To guide the meek who seek the glory of Eternity beyond the curse of Earth. __Love conquers death For all who prize His gift and what it’s worth— For us He gave His cherished Son’s last breath.
‘Make Christmas a Verb’
By Mark F. Stone
For many, the gifts are the be-all and end-all: the big screen, the tablet, the Barbie and Ken doll. For me, gifts I get are like ice in the sun. I cannot recall them. No, not even one.
How did I find a true way to remember the import of each twenty-fifth of December? The quest to acquire is an urge one can curb. The lesson I learned was: make Christmas a verb.
Knock on the door of your neighbors who deal with aging and loneliness. Bring them a meal. If you have means and you live in fine fettle, drop off some greens in that little red kettle.
Visit our vets who are hurt and express your thanks for their service as they convalesce. Deliver to others a luminous glow. The gifts you will cherish are those you bestow.
‘Cattleman’
By Fr. Dan Tuton
Sinewed arms and knotted hands, head inclined, intense you peer Toward the heavens, clear-sky eyes Viewing the parade of years.
Corrals of cattle, sagebrush, sun with grief and gratitude are blessed, Nestled in a weathered heart, like heirlooms in a cedar chest.
Few now ask to see them, these, your treasures of a life lived free, But here upon this hospice bed they glow with desert clarity.
Now eighty years, your rawhide stretched, your focus turning slow toward me; You ask to hear the story told, This Eve of the Nativity.
Attentive eyes unmask my smile with patience born of one who’s seen Countless seasons, rich and spare, life and loved ones in between.
No notion here of letting go, Of gently greeting that good night. You listen, resolute and calm, You’ll hail again the morning light.
