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About Medford mail tribune. (Medford, Or.) 1909-1989 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 23, 1962)
CORNS or money back from Only Blue Jay can make this 3-day guarantee. Relieve pain fast, be rid of corns with Blue Jay, BY I nesdgyl mm: tlOM p I Adventure in Paradise? Serjeant Joe Kerson is not in the tropics lor the scenery. He's there with lots of other Gl's . . . waiting . . . watching . . . standing guard . , . fighting loneliness. There is no USO on Joe's island as there is in 32 other military danger ones. With 2.750.000 Gl's. USO htfsn't been able to keep pace. For lack of funds, thousands of watch weary, taut nerved Gl's are being de prived of the USO's spiritual help . . . its vital measure of home. Well, you can do something about that by giving to your United Fund or Community Chest, from which the USO Rets a well deserved share. Es pecially well deserved because USO tries to reach all Gl's-your boy among them so he'll never have to wonder . . . "Does anybody know I'm here?" Support the USO thiough United -Fund or your Community Chest. Plagued Day And Night with Bladder Discomfort? Unwift rutin ir drinking may be a Mtirrvof milil. hul nun' in blmllr frri tntiona making you frrl rlk, tn. Mini unrwmfni tal.k. Anil if tvtU- nights. ith nmritnK harkarh. hM.Uchmr mm-i-iilr nt-hnl naintliitiiivr-trrlkin, Mrain r rm1 tonal uprt, arr a'Mm to .mr mier-tt.n't wail-try IKwn'a i.n lill lift 1 for mtty r- Hff. I - Tnrjr h it aithinir tnVrl on lUtlilrr tntlation. i- A f tt-t ialnrrllv tnn mlt-'n on nwiwiiiR Ui-kach. hmU Hi'tivn, rmmcular at-nt am) palna. S-A Miindrrfully milil hurtir action thru th k itinera. trmiiiiK t incrt-a the iititnl of ihw IS roilw tf kiilnev tuhra. So, ri the .imr happy rrlUf million havt enjoyrtl fur nvrr yvara. hir eonventene. buy th mrgr tit: lift Ik n't Itlb today! 'J' 0 We're running a race against Christmas. We run to the kitchen to bake cookies. We run to the market to buy hams and turkeys. We run to the shops to buy gifts. We run all day every duy with the calendar hot on our heels. At night, when we fall exhausted into bed, we can't sleep. The clock of Christmas ticks like a pounding pulse. I'm out of breath. I run to my office. I run home again. I write all the checks in my checkbook and run to the bank for more. And I'm not laughing like Liberace. When a neighbor hints at a special present in store for me, I remember I've left her name off my list. When I add it, I recall three other neighbors who belong there, and nothing occurs to me as a gift possibility except satin covered thermometers or left-handed nonpareils. The $5 saved for a lavish gift for a favorite aunt is sufficient for a bag of dog food. The cost of Christmas mounts higher every year. The insurance premium is due, and the car needs a new fuel pump, refusing to get up in the morning. One of these mornings I won't, either. I lay a package down in the kitchen and rescue it later from the garbage can. I buy a gift and leave it in the store. And there are Christmas parties and gift exchanges and the desperate hours of trying to find something for someone who has everything. And the guilty feeling of not being able to put more in the Salvation Army kettles. ONE OF THESE DAYS, one of these starlit lights, the spirit of Christmas will find me, and I will stop running. We all will. Suddenly, in a whiff of pine bough, the smoky scent of a fat candle, the rich taste of fruitcake, we will be captured. We will notice, at last, a tree glowing in a window, a child's face lifted to Santa Clans. We will hear a church bell in the night and a carol in the .snow. All at once peace will come to replace the foolish race. We will sit quietly on Christmas Eve and fill our eyes with beauty. And our hearts with love. T-HoG-Ce The Christmas I Treasure Most (Continued from page 9) Jeffrey and Winifred (the youngest grandchildren) lighted all the candles. Then with all of his family gathered around him. Father read St Luke's imcomparable account of the first Christmas. There was carol singing, with Chester and Winifred singing a duet "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" in their high piping voices. Then Mother, the storyteller of the family, gave us an old favorite: "Why the Chimes Rang." She made us see the ragged little boy creeping up that long cathedral aisle and slipping his gift onto the altar. Then she said: "You know, I'd like to make a suggestion. The floor underneath the tree in the den is piled high with gifts we're giving to one another. But we're celebrating Christ's birthday not our own. This is His time of year. What are we going to give to Jesus?" The room began to hum with voices comparing notes. Hut Mother went on: "Ia-I's think about it for a few mo ments. Then we'll go around the circle and each of us will tell what gift he will lay on the altar for Christ's birthday." Chester, age seven, crept close to his father for a whis pered consultation. Then he said shyly: "What I'd like to give Jesus this year is not to lose my temper any more." Jeffrey, age four, who hail been slow in night training, was delightfully specific: "I'll give Him my diapers." Winifred said softly that she was going to give Jesus good grades in school. I.en's was: "I'd like to be a better husband and father. I'd especially like to give the gift of more patience." AND so IT WENT, on around the group. Peter John's was . short but significant : "What 1 need to give to Christ is a more dedicated life." I was to remcmtxT that statement seven and a half months later when the wish expressed that night became an act of dedication at a summer conference of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes in Kstes Park, Colo. In June, 1 00 1 . he would be graduated from Yale; the autumn would see him in Princeton Seminary. Yet at Christmas time. 1060, oil Wi-rUif. IVrrmtM-r 1M. l'Jh? that was the last thing he expected to be doing. Then it was Father's turn. "I certainly don't want to inject too solemn a note into this," he said, "but somehow I know that this is the last Christmas I'll be sitting in this room with my family gathered around me like this." We gasped and protested, but he would not be stopped. "No, I so much want to say this. I've had a most wonder ful life. Long, long ago I gave my life to Christ. Though I've tried to serve Him, I've failed Him often. But He has blessed me with great riches especially my family. I want to say this while you're all here; I may not have another . chance. Even after I go on into the next life, I'll still be with you. And I'll be waiting for each one of you there." Til eke was love in his brown eyes and tears in ours. No one said anything for a moment. Time seemed to stand still in the quiet room. Firelight and candlelight played on the children's faces as they looked at their grandfather, trying to grasp what he was saying. The fragrance of bal sam and cedar was in the air. Father did leave this world four months later on May 1. His passing was like a benediction. It happened one after noon as he sat quietly in a chair in the little village post office talking to some of his friends. His heart just stopped beating. That Christmas Eve he had known with a strange soreness that the time was close. Every time I think of Father now, I can see that scene in the living room like a jewel of a moment set in the ordinary moments that make up our days. For that brief time, real values came clearly into focus: Father's grati tude for life. Mother's strong faith, my husband's quiet strength, my son's inner yearning momentarily shining through blurred, youthful ambitions, the eager faces of children groping toward understanding and truth, the reality of the love of God as our thoughts focused on Him whose birth we were commemorating. It was my most memorable Christmas.
