It was the night before Christmas Eve. John was already asleep beside me, unconcerned about the last minute plans I was making. I had meant to be all ready for Christmas, but I didn’t count on the chicken pox. For three days and nights I had cared for Rebecca and Scott, trying to soothe the constant itching. How annoying, I thought—couldn’t they have waited until after the holidays? But now the worst was over; they would sleep well tonight. As I drifted off, a jumble of images fill my mind – no visions of sugar plums – just things to do: Christmas dinner to make…the house to clean…some gifts to deliver…packages to wrap…toys to assemble…a few more stocking stuffers…a list of phone calls…so much to do…

I was awakened early Christmas Eve morning by Rebecca’s touch. “Mommy, my chin hurts.” I could see some puffiness around one of her chicken pox. I admonished her not to scratch it, and closed my eyes again, but she tugged at me again and said, “I don’t feel good.” I reached for her forehead, wondering why her fever had returned.

Since the first of December, she had been counting the days to Christmas, faithfully reminding us every morning what day it was. Yesterday she had proudly announced, “It’s two more days ‘til Christmas!” But this morning, she didn’t say anything about Christmas.

Medication did nothing to ease Rebecca’s fever. Her chin and cheek became hugely swollen, and she lay on the couch, her eyes dull and lifeless. We couldn’t even coax a smile out of her. Something was terribly wrong.

That evening we admitted her to the hospital. I was vaguely aware of the carols playing over the intercom, the strings of colored lights, and the Christmas tree. Mostly, I noticed how strangely quiet it was. As we carried Rebecca down the hallway, I overheard a nurse say, “Wouldn’t it be horrible to bring your child to the hospital on Christmas Eve?”

Yes, it was horrible. I had cried earlier as I selected one present from under the tree for each of our four boys and said good-bye to them, sending them to my parents’ home. Ten-year-old Gary responded, “We don’t even want to have Christmas without Rebecca.” Often the true spirit of Christmas is manifested in a single moment, and this year, the moment was now. “Bless you, Gary,” I said.

Rebecca had cellulitis, a deadly, strep-like infection of the skin that invades deeper and deeper layers of tissue, threatening breathing passageways and the brain within hours. It was not surprising to hear how fast the disease could spread – we had literally watched her face grow throughout the day. Had we waited too long to call the doctor?

Both John and I stayed in her room that first night, watching, worrying, praying and trying to make her comfortable. In the morning she awoke slowly. The infection had spread under her chin and to the other side of her face. John looked at me from across the bed and said grimly, “Merry Christmas.” Rebecca gazed blankly at a white teddy bear on a chair in the corner – a gift from Santa. I was struck by the contrast of this morning with all the other Christmas mornings of my life: No whispers, no giggles, no squeals, no wrapping paper or boxes or bows, no noisy toys, no surprises.

Funny—a few days ago we considered it a hassle to have chicken pox during the holidays. Yesterday, we worried that she was too sick to enjoy her presents. Today we didn’t care about presents. Today we didn’t care about any of the frantic and frivolous Christmas rush.

For two days, we stayed by Rebecca’s bed and watched the infection grow as an IV steadily pumped a high-powered antibiotic into her tiny veins. Her fever hovered around 105. She was afraid of the nurses who came to test her blood for toxins. She was motionless one moment, and restless the next, and miserable all of the time. I prayed in a way that I had never prayed before, and realized more than ever what an immeasurable blessing it is to know that He lives, to know that He would hear my prayers. I begged Him for a miracle. Oh, please, I kept saying, please make her better.

By the third day John and I were nearing exhaustion, but we began to notice a change in Rebecca. Her appetite returned and her fever began to drop. She felt well enough to be bored. When she saw herself in the mirror, she pouted, “My face looks stupid.” Actually, the swelling was beginning to go down. I lifted my eyes heavenward and whispered, “Thank you for this gift.”

After lunch the next day, I was sitting on Rebecca’s hospital bed, reading a new book to her. “Mommy,” she said suddenly, “I missed Christmas.” Tears welled in my eyes. She was right—she had missed Christmas, but none of the rest of us had. Instead, we experienced the most meaningful holiday of our lives. We understood more completely all the true gifts of Christmas, the gifts freely granted us because Christ the Lord was born a babe in Bethlehem: The gift of hope, the gift of love, and yes, the gift of life itself.

We brought Rebecca home two days later when the only sign of her illness was a knot on her chin. The unopened presents were still under the tree where we had left them nearly a week ago, but they held little meaning for us. We had our Christmas gift.

Grace Crowell penned these words that were so appropriate then, as they are now:

I shall have leisure—I shall go out alone from my roof and my door;
I shall not miss the silver silence of stars as I have before;
And oh, perhaps—if I stand there very still and very long,
I shall hear what the clamor of living has kept from me—the angel’s song.

– See more at: http://mormonwoman.org/2009/12/10/first-person-we-didnt-miss-christmas/#sthash.gIpXlBmc.dpuf

*Image source 

The post We Didn’t Miss Christmas by Shawna Edwards appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

Clancy wrote this last year after directing her ward congregation’s Christmas program.

The tree boughs were sagging with the weight of the white blanket that the sky gently laid down. They looked tired. I stared at them for a long time wanting to go and give them a good shake to relieve them of their burden. I smiled because that’s just how I felt- relieved of my burden. The funny thing was, I didn’t even know I carried the load until I woke up dreaming bad dreams about the program.

The program was starting. I was in charge and I was at the back of the chapel. I thought that I was supposed to be in the back, but then I realized that I was in the wrong place. I needed to be up front. Strangely, as I realized this, the chapel was suddenly about two miles long and I knew I’d never make it up there in time because it had already started and the pianist was waiting for me to cue them to start.

I panicked, so my husband and I ran outside and he drove me to the front of the chapel (which had become an ultra long trek). When I ran in the door, the Primary Chorister had brought all the Primary kids up to the stand early since I wasn’t there to coordinate it. The pianist was playing the intro of “Joy To The World” over and over, waiting for me. As I got up to where I would lead, the Primary kids were in the way and the pianist and the organist couldn’t see me. I moved them several times, but they just kept drifting back in my way and I hit them with my arm as I led the song. I woke up in a panic and every time I’d fall asleep again, I ‘d dream something else bad. Finally I gave up and got out of bed at 7:30 on a Sunday morning… unheard of for me!

Needless to say, after the dreams, I was nervous and felt the weight of coordinating and carrying out my responsibility conducting the church Christmas program. Had I thought of everything? Had I miscalculated the time? Would the speakers go on too long and make us get out late? Would I remember to stand the choir up before they sing? Would someone bump my music stand in the shuffle of singers and send my music flying with a loud crash? Would I forget the cut-offs?

I was so busy worrying that I couldn’t even enjoy it or tell if it was going smoothly or not. It felt choppy and disjointed. Don’t get me wrong, there were tender moments… hearing the speaker talk of a Christmas in her childhood when she got a single stuffed bear for Christmas and her joy was full… hearing my brother sing with tender strength about Joseph guarding the baby Jesus… seeing my little girl and her friends sing “Away In A Manger” with their sweet, little, child-voices… hearing a piano solo and letting the beauty of that performance make me feel buoyant and light… but those tender moments were constantly buried by the bigger worry about the clock, the time signatures and the cut-offs. Was anybody feeling the spirit and the message or were they picking up on my freaky-worried vibes? Was that a blank, bored face I just saw, or was he just absent from his body as the music carried him to a place only he could see and experience? I was neurotic. I was a roller coaster.

Then… the final cutoff came. I listened as the prayer blew threw my wind tunnel ears… I couldn’t hear it, but it didn’t matter. It was over and I was relieved. Relief was something I expected. What I didn’t expect was fulfillment. There was a need in me that had somehow eluded my awareness and was now making itself known.

As person after person came to me with tears in their eyes expressing the beauty of the last hour, tears began to fill mine. My own aunt hugged me, crying, and told me that I had “saved her Christmas.” Someone else told me that was the best church Christmas music program she had ever experienced. Another person held my face in her hands as she thanked me over and over. And yet another held my hands and told me how perfectly wonderful it was and how it was just what she needed. There were more… my mom, my dad, the Bishop, the Bishop’s wife, a few choir members… they just kept coming and I was totally overwhelmed.

I really didn’t do that much… except shoulder some responsibility, execute a plan that I had a lot of help with, and listen to other people make beautiful music.

It was the spirit of the music, the people and the Savior, Jesus Christ, that did all the work. It was touching to so many people and, even though I was too busy worrying to notice, I was bombarded with feelings joy and gratitude and service when it was all over because people shared how it touched them. I couldn’t believe that I missed their joy and that I actually wondered if people were bored and thinking “Enough music, already!”

And then, as I went home, I was overcome with gratitude to my Heavenly Father for giving me the gift of arranging all of this, participating in it, and working with the many people who helped pull it off. I was overcome with the Spirit and I felt joy and love pulsing from me like a heartbeat and I thanked Him for my joy and my experience.

I feel humbled and gratified in a way that was so very unexpected. I was full of gladness and the magic of song, season and service.

The post First Person: Christmas Music appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

The author E.B. White (1899-1985) once said:

To perceive Christmas through its wrapping becomes more difficult with every year.

Is it difficult to see Christ in Christmas when focused on the wrapping? Perhaps. But, perhaps contrary to popular belief, I don’t believe these thoughts have to push out the “true meaning” of Christmas. Instead, they can evoke a feeling of love, service, excitement, childhood faith, and a longing for peace.

It is true that there are times, amidst all the wrapping of gifts, the baking of goodies, and the stringing of lights when our anger, frustration, and exhaustion can catch up with us. We wonder if any of the traditions are even worth it! How could these details possibly remind us of the Infant Jesus? How does it remind us of His life and mission?

But it only takes a moment to see the hidden treasures inside of the stress and chaos.

For example: We stress over service, but laugh with joy at a gift given. We worry over a performance, but rejoice with an evening of spectacular music. We sacrifice time to decorate and bake, but we are surrounded by family and friends, enjoying the symbols of love and peace (and eating good food!).

For many, truly celebrating the birth of Christ means moments of quiet reflection. It means focus upon what the birth of a Savior did for us. This is good! But with that focus, I believe we can see significance in family traditions, inspirational Christmas concerts, fun parties, gifts, decorations, and food. With all of it can come a unity and a desire to be better than we are —and isn’t this what the Christmas season is all about?

I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become… but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress.
– May Sarton (1912-1995)

-by Cheryl

The post Unwrapping Christmas Chaos appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.