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1
Adventure
in Paradise?
Sergeant Joe Kerson is not in the
tropics for 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
zones. With 2,750,000 Gl's. USO
hasn't been able to keep pace. For
lac? of funds, thousands of watch
weary, taut nerved Gl's are being de
prived of the USO's spiritual help ... j
its vital measure of home. j
Well, you can do something about !
that by giving to your United Fund or j
Community Chest, from which the j
USO gets a well deserved share. s-
penally well deserved because USO :
tries to reach all Gl's -your boy :
among them -so he'll never have to i
wonder ... :
"Does anybody know I'm here?" j
Suppoit the USO through United -Fund
or your Community Chest.
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the large site. Doan'a Pilla today!
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 day 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 nights, 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 Claus. 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. -&GJ-Cjs
The Christmas I Treasure Most
(Continued from page 9)
JefTrey 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.
But Mother went on: "Let'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 had 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. Len'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 I need to give to Christ
is a more dedicated life."
1 was to remember 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, 1961,
he would be graduated from Yale; the autumn would see
him in Princeton Seminary. Yet at Christmas time, I960,
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."
There 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 mouths 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
stireness 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.