On Saturday mornings my mother also reviewed our week's expenditures. One morning there'd been 25¢ she couldn't account for. “Can you think of something we bought with a quarter this week?” she had asked me earnestly. “Think hard!”

  I couldn't remember and didn't share her concern when it came to finances. I received 30¢ a week allowance—5¢ more than any of my cousins. And unlike my cousin Jantje, who was required to save up her allowance to buy underwear and socks, my basic needs were always met. After I paid my 3¢ tithing, I was able to spend the rest on such luxuries as yellow pencils, pink pearl erasers, rainbow notepads, or, for my eating pleasure, popsicles or cream-filled Hostess cupcakes. Until I found the small catalog, I'd felt lucky and satisfied.

  As I showed the pictures of the beautiful and exciting toys to my mother, I must have known we could not afford them. But Christmas, that magical time when dreams come true and anything can happen, was right around the corner. Besides, I was in a most fortuitous position. I knew two Santas—one, the stately saint who carried a staff and rode on a white horse, filled Dutch children's shoes and left them gifts; and another, considerably fatter and jollier, came in a sled pulled by reindeer and preferred stockings but was every bit as generous.

  I wasn't entirely clear about how things worked when it came to Santas. My mother had never said much about Sinter Klaas or his American counterpart. She'd never spoken of him with the earnest conviction I heard in her voice whenever she talked about Heavenly Father or Jesus or the prophets. But pictures of the man dressed in red were everywhere and Christine, my new friend, was constantly threatened with, “You'd better be good or Santa won't come!”

  “That is quite much for just one little girl,” my mother commented, as she took my list and glanced with a somewhat amused but hapless expression at Oma, who was kneading pale yellow bread dough at the counter. My grandmother smiled and shook her head ever so slightly, turning the large hulk of dough over and slapping it down into the bowl. I informed them quickly and with abandon that the American Santa had not just one assistant; he had a whole crew of elves working for him. In fact, someone in my class had seen him right around the corner at Sears!

  “Ah ha,” my mother said, and she pulled the catalog closer to her and looked more carefully at the page I'd pointed out. I should have noted the wistful expression in her eyes and the way she puffed forward her mouth, but I didn't. In fact, I soon forgot about the catalog and moved on to other concerns—such as the Christmas program. I needed extra practice because apparently I was the only one in my class who didn't have “Up on the Housetop” memorized.

  I didn't pay much attention either to the changes in my mother's schedule during the next few weeks, as we began making mysterious stops at thrift stores, hardware stores, fabric stores, and even the lumber store. Each night, as soon as the Deseret News arrived, she turned to the classified ads and ran her index finger down the columns. Then she made phone calls and asked muffled questions. One night we drove through winding streets until we came to a big brick house. While Oma dozed in the back seat of the old Ford and I stared hypnotized at the deer with the flashing red nose (whose name, I'd learned from the song, was Rudolf), my mother disappeared down some stairs to the basement side entrance. Later the slam of the trunk lid startled me awake, but my eyelids slid shut again as she slipped into the driver's seat and turned the ignition so we could head home.

  I still didn't catch on to what was happening even when I woke one night to low talking in the kitchen and the tapping of a hammer. But a few days later, while I was looking in my mother's dresser drawer for some zoute dropjes (licorice) she'd told me I could find there, I noticed the tiny Christmas catalog I'd been so excited about a couple of weeks earlier tucked upright along the drawer's side. What was it doing there, and why did my mother still have that catalog?

  In bed that night I closed my eyes but couldn't sleep. Then my eyes popped open and my stomach rose to my throat as the puzzle pieces fit together and the picture emerged. It wasn't Santa, Dutch or American, or even his assistants, but my already overworked quarter-counting mother and my careful, frugal grandparents who were working late into the night to make my Christmas dreams come true. Shame filled me. They had gravely misunderstood! Yes, I had made a list and I had circled the items, and sure, I wanted them—but only if they came by ship from Spain or by sled from the North Pole or were created by elves. I didn't want them if they required my family's effort or money. I'd wished for them like you wish for something when you blow out the candles on an American birthday cake. I didn't really expect them!

  How selfish and foolish I'd been to show the catalog to my mother. There was no such thing as magic—not even at Christmas! Maybe I'd known all along that nothing came free and that someone somewhere had to struggle and sacrifice for gifts. Maybe I'd only pretended not to know.

  I needed to tell them. I needed to tell my mother and Oma and Opa and maybe even my uncles and let them know what they were doing wasn't necessary.

  But I didn't tell them—not that day or the next. I didn't even tell them during the week before Christmas. Instead, the night before Christmas, I lay awake and with anxious anticipation watched the hands on our radio clock move at a tortoise pace from one number to the next. I would close my eyes, count to sixty three or four times, and check again to see how far the large hand had moved.

  When it was morning at last, no young heart could have pounded as loudly as mine when I saw that the corner by the side window of our living room had been transformed into a miniature kitchen complete with a small white table covered with a cheerful yellow gingham tablecloth and doll-sized dishes. Small napkins matched the cloth as did two little aprons edged in binding— one for me and one for my doll Sylvia. Nearby, to my further amazement, I saw a little fridge and stove. They weren't as shiny as the ones in the catalog, but the burners on top of the stove really heated up, and the tiny oven could really bake. I suspected my grandfather, who had gotten the car nobody else wanted, running, probably had a hand in this. There were little pans as well— some for cooking and some for baking—one a small round cake pan.

  Best of all, the look of satisfaction on my mother's face as she took Oma's arm told me it was okay. Even my uncles were grinning.

  I never had another Christmas quite like that one. In fact, I played with those toys for years afterward.

  It wasn't until decades later that I fully realized the extent of the resourcefulness, effort, and sacrifice that had been required that Christmas. It wasn't until I stayed up late for my own children on Christmas Eve and spent much time and too much money in the weeks before, in an attempt to make their wishes come true, that I fully realized the magnitude of the miracle.

  I saw in my family's eyes that Christmas morning so many years ago, and have learned since, that there is magic after all. It is the love that prompts us to give more than we can really afford to make wishes come true. It is the spirit of sacrifice that our Savior, whose birth we celebrate, exemplifies.

  THE GIFTS OF CHRISTMAS

  John A. Widtsoe

  Christmas gifts should be in memory of the divine gift, the life of Jesus the Christ. His gift gave us eternal life; our gifts should enliven with joy those who receive. His gift was the sacrifice of His earthly life; our gifts should represent personal sacrifices on our part.

  It is easy to give to our own, those whom we love. Their gladness becomes our joy. We are not quite so ready to give to others, even if they are in need, for their happiness does not seem so necessary to our happiness. It appears yet more difficult to give to the Lord, for we are prone to believe that He must give and ask nothing in return.

  We have foolishly reversed the proper order. Our first gift at Christmas should be to the Lord; next to the friend or stranger by our gate; then, surcharged with the effulgence from such giving, we would enhance the value of our gifts to our very own. A selfish gift leaves a scar upon the soul, and it is but half a gift.

  How can we give to the Lord? What shall we give to Him? Every kind word to our own, every help given them, are as gifts to God, whose chief concern is the welfare of His children. Every gentle deed to our neighbor, every kindness to the poor and suffering, are gifts to the Lord, before whom all mankind are equal. Every conformity to the Lord's plan of salvation—and this is of first importance— is a direct gift to God, for thereby we fit ourselves more nearly for our divinely planned destiny.

  The desire and effort to give to the Lord, born of the surrender of man to the plan of salvation, stamp every Christmas gift with genuine value. They who identify themselves with the plan, who do not resist it, who earnestly seek to tread the path of the plan, are true givers to the Lord, and their gifts to men come with the flavor of heaven. The Lord and His plan must have place in our Christmas celebration.

  Do we give intelligent obedience to the laws of the Gospel—obedience based upon sober study and trial of the practices of the Church? If our giving is without such obedience, it is away from the Lord, not towards Him. Do we stand ready to sacrifice for the cause of the Lord, in the unpaid services of the Church? That is, are our time, talents, and means at the disposal of those who administer the Lord's work? Great is the gift from such a hand.

  Do we look upon the progress of the purposes of the Lord, by feeble human instruments, through eyes of love? Love looks deep into the soul, beyond superficialities; the loving husband does not sense that age is stealing upon the sweetheart of his youth; the member who loves the Church dwells upon the likeness of man to God, forgets human imperfections, and does not find fault. These are tests of the higher, richer giving at Christmas. Obedience, sacrifice, love—once these tests have been met, the gifts of Christmas, small or great, become more pleasing to the Lord, by a subtle, spiritual sense, more acceptable to the recipient, and leave permanent joy with the giver.

  Would it not be well this Christmas, to give first to the Lord, directly through obedience, sacrifice, and love, and then to give to Him indirectly through gifts to friends and those in need as well as to our own? Should we do this, perhaps many of us would discover a new Christmas joy.

  WE THREE KINGS OF ORIENT ARE

  John Henry Hopkins, Jr.

  KINGS:

  We three kings of Orient are,

  Bearing gifts we traverse afar,

  Field and fountain, moor and mountain,

  Following yonder star.

  O star of wonder, star of night,

  Star with royal beauty bright,

  Westward leading, still proceeding,

  Guide us to the perfect light.

  MELCHIOR:

  Born a babe on Bethlehem's plain

  Gold I bring to crown Him again;

  King forever, ceasing never

  Over us all to reign.

  O star of wonder, star of night,

  Star with royal beauty bright,

  Westward leading, still proceeding,

  Guide us to the perfect light.

  CASPAR:

  Frankincense to offer have I;

  Incense owns a Deity nigh,

  Prayer and praising all men raising,

  Worship Him, God on high.

  O star of wonder, star of night,

  Star with royal beauty bright,

  Westward leading, still proceeding,

  Guide us to the perfect light.

  BALTHASAR:

  Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume

  Breathes a life of gathering gloom;

  Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,

  Sealed in a stone-cold tomb.

  O star of wonder, star of night,

  Star with royal beauty bright,

  Westward leading, still proceeding,

  Guide us to the perfect light.

  ALL:

  Glorious now behold Him arise,

  King and God and Sacrifice;

  Heaven sings “Hallelujah!”

  “Hallelujah!” earth replies.

  O star of wonder, star of night,

  Star with royal beauty bright,

  Westward leading, still proceeding,

  Guide us to the perfect light.

  “IT IS BETTER TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE”

  George D. Durrant

  Christmas was coming, and each of us first graders in Miss Booth's class had drawn the name of another boy or girl to whom we were to give a Christmas gift. It was to cost no more than fifty cents.

  On the day when the gifts were to be brought to school, I arrived early and put my gift for Walt under the Christmas tree. Then I sat in my seat waiting to see who would put a gift for me under the tree.

  Bob came in with a big box wrapped in red paper with a large white ribbon. Each of the children hoped that this gift, which was by far the largest one, would be for him. Then Bob shouted, “This big present is for George.”

  I had never been so happy. The biggest present under the tree was for me! All the other children in the class wished that they were as lucky as I was. I could hardly wait for the end of the day, when the gifts would be opened. Many times that day a boy or girl would say to me, “You are so lucky. I wish I was you. I wish that the big present was for me.”

  Finally the time came. Miss Booth said, “All right, boys and girls, it is time to open the gifts. We are all so excited to see what is in that large present Bob got for George. So let's start with that one. Bob, would you come up and take your gift to lucky George?”

  My heart pounded with excitement. All eyes were upon me. I could tell that everyone else wished they were me.

  Bob placed the large red box in front of me. I began to tear the paper away. Then I opened the box. I could see much crumpled-up newspaper. I pulled each of the papers from the box. Then, down at the bottom of the box, I saw a book. I pulled it out and saw it was a coloring book.

  Suddenly all of my happiness changed to sadness. I didn't like coloring books.

  Then everyone said, “I hope I don't get a coloring book. I hope I get something more exciting than what George got.”

  Now, instead of feeling like I was the happiest person in the world, I felt that I was the saddest. I didn't even want to watch to see what the other boys and girls received for their gifts. I even felt that I didn't like Bob, because Bob had made me feel unhappy.

  Finally the teacher said, “Now for our last gift. It is the gift that George brought for Walt. George, please come up and get your gift and give it to Walt.”

  As I walked to the front I felt sad. Everyone in the class had received a better gift than I had received. I took the gift to Walt and then I sat down.

  A minute later Walt shouted, “Oh, look at this! This is what I wanted! It is a walkometer. You pin it on your belt and it will tell you how far you have walked.”

  Walt put it on his belt and began to walk around the room. All of the other boys and girls were really excited. One boy said, “I wish I had that. That is the best gift of all the gifts. I wish George had drawn my name.”

  A girl said, “Next year I hope that George gets my name.”

  Then Miss Booth said, “George, you sure do know how to give good gifts. Everyone in the class wants to be able to make others as happy as you have made Walt.”

  Walt turned around and looked at me and said, “Thanks, George, for making me the happiest boy in the class.”

  Suddenly I didn't feel sad inside. I looked at my coloring book and saw a picture of some pirates. I loved pirates. I wanted to get out my crayons and go to work, but it was time to go home.

  As I left to go home Bob shouted, “Merry Christmas, George.” I said the same thing back, and I felt that this would be my happiest Christmas so far.

  THE WORST CHRISTMAS PAGEANT EVER

  Ann Edwards Cannon

  I was fourteen and I wanted to die.

  Part of the problem was that I was fourteen and female. My brother John, the doctor, says that being fourteen and female is a disorder actually recognized by the American Psychiatric Association, and that his professor once spent a whole day talking about it in his Introduction to Psychiatry class. Physical symptoms of the fourteen-and-female syndrome include slumping in chairs, standing with arms folded across the chest, and wearing the exact same clothes as other disturbed fourteen-year-old girls. Behavioral symptoms include crying, trying on lip gloss, crying, going to the mall, crying, talking to disturbed fourteen-year-old boys on the telephone— and crying.

  It's a terrible disease, and so far there's no cure.

  So being fourteen was definitely part of my problem. The other part was that I was supposed to be the featured Youth Participant in the ward Christmas program that Sunday. It wouldn't have been so bad if I had just been allowed to get up and deliver the standard Youth Talk, which runs something along these lines: “Today I'm going to talk about (fill in the blank). Webster's Dictionary defines (fill in the blank) as (fill in a couple more blanks). I hope that we can all (blank, blank, blank).” And so forth.

  Well, I wasn't going to be allowed to give a Youth Talk. I had to participate with a bunch of adults in a special holiday program written and directed by Dr. LaVerl S. Wanship, professor of music.

  Dr. Wanship was a roly-poly little man who could play the piano like nobody's business. In fact, he could play the piano so well that sometimes he would stop in the middle of bearing his testimony and say, “Why don't I just play my testimony for you?” Then he would stride up to the front of the chapel on his little legs, position himself in front of the piano, pause—and play. Whenever Dr. Wanship did this, I and the rest of the fourteen-year-olds in the ward would cringe. It was so embarrassing.

  Actually, Dr. Wanship wasn't the only adult in our ward who did embarrassing things. There was Sister Miller, who wore white go-go boots even though she was seventy years old, and Brother Meacham, who sprayed spit every time he talked, and Sister Fisher, who loudly told everybody at a ward party that all it took to keep regular was a cup of bran and a glass of warm water every morning.