I am the mom of 15 children, and so I know what it is like to be busy at Christmas time and how important it is for mommies to find little spaces where they can recharge.
In that spirit, please allow me to give you a boost by sharing some sweet things with you.
Following are some passages by Margaret E. Sangster, Jr. (Not to be confused with Margaret Sanger, ahem).
Sangster was a popular author during the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. She was considered “inspirational” and shared many poems and stories that helped her readers look to God.
I hope you will enjoy these selections. If you would rather listen to them than read them, please follow the links to my podcast below the text:
A MOTHER’S PRAYER AT CHRISTMAS
I hold my baby up to Thee,
So that, perchance, his eyes may see
A greater love than even mine,
A love divine.
Oh! Master,
Make my baby’s life
A happy journey. Ease his strife
With care, and toil and want and pain;
Let not the fear of loss or gain
Blot out the gladness in his eyes,
Or dim the light that in them lies
—
The very light of Bethlehem’s star,
That shone afar.
Dear Jesus,
With Thy boundless care.
Make bright his pathway—everywhere;
Let not deceit, or craft, or guile
Turn to a sneer his tender smile.
For many hundred years ago,
When all the land was clothed in snow.
Another Baby smiling lay.
On Christmas Day.
My Savior,
Hear this humble prayer,
Keep Thou his tiny hands so fair,
All pinkly tinted like a flower,
Away from heedless wealth and power;
But let them always open be,
To sufferers that he may see
As once Christ’s baby hand uncurled,
To bless the world
I hold my baby up to Thee,
So that His eyes may look and see.
The promise of a love divine,
Greater than mine!
THE LONELY LADY’S CHRISTMAS STORY
THE Lonely Lady sits in her sunny window during the day—before her glowing fire in the evening.
She has a cat, and a ball of knitting, and when folk drop to talk to her she takes out a fascinating tea kettle and lights the alcohol lamp under it with a blue-veined slender hand. But, though she laughs charmingly, and tells gentle little jokes, and talks sympathetically, a shadow dwells behind the soft- ness of her eyes, that may be hurt, or wistfulness, or both.
It “was a dark blowing night outside, with a sharpness of steel in the air, but the Lonely Lady’s room glowed like the heart of some great rose. It was just a week before Christ- mas and as the wind blew fiercely against the shutters it sounded as if all the homeless children in the city were wail- ing and beating with their fists, to be let in. The Lonely Lady shivered and moved closer to the fire.
“It was on such a night—the night before Christmas — that it happened,” she sighed. “Fifty-five years ago I”
“It?” I questioned. Stories in front of an open fire- place with the wind outside—I loved them!
The Lonely Lady stared into the fire. Tiny flames were creeping along a huge log and the sparks crackled out merrily.
“Fifty-five years ago !” she said again—”and now my hair is white” . . . she shaded her eyes with her hand. “Jim and I were at church,” she began softly, “practicing for the Christmas music. There were old carols —’God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen,’ ‘It Came Upon the Midnight Clear,’ lots of them. Jim had a good voice and I often stopped sing- ing my own parts to listen to him. … I was engaged to Jim.
“We practiced for a few hours and then we started home over the fields—fields full of snow, silver in the moonlight with little dark paths running crossways through them. I held Jim’s arm and he hummed as he went along. ‘Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men,’ he hummed. Jim had a sweet voice—I was happy listening.
“We walked along slowly until we came to a fence. Jim was letting down the pasture bars when we heard a faint sound. It seemed like a kitten to me, but Jim started and turned around.
” *A baby,’ he said.
“‘Nonsense,’ I told him nervously, ‘nonsense, let’s go
home !’
“Jim stopped his humming. His eyes looked strange in the moonlight. Jim had grey eyes like cold steel sometimes, and sometimes like the sky on an October day.
” ‘I’m ashamed of you, girl,’ he said (he always called me girl). “‘We’ll go see who’s in trouble.”
“The snow blew about our ankles as we hurried along. It was damp and sticky and I held close to the rough sleeve of Jim’s coat. Presently we came to a dark bundle in the snow. It was a baby. Jim lifted it tenderly in his arms while I stood shivering.
” ‘It’s all wrapped up in a blanket,’ he said, ‘poor little thing, and—girl—there’s a note pinned on it.’ He struck a match and he read a feeble line of writing on a scrap of paper.
” ‘This is Jesus’ birthday,’ it read, ‘for His sake take care of my baby!’
” ‘It’s a trust,’ said Jim solemnly.
” ‘Jim,’ I fairly shrieked, ‘you won’t—keep that baby ?’
” ‘Why not ?’ questioned Jim. His voice was as cold as the moonlight on the snow.
” ‘Because—it isn’t anybody’s baby,’ I sobbed, ‘it might grow up—to be bad. You don’t know about its mother or father. You don’t know anything about it. Please don’t keep the baby, Jim, dear!’
“The little figure in the blanket began to cry loudly, and — well my dear, I was young. I pushed pity away to one side and hardened my selfish little heart.
” ‘Jim/ I pleaded, ‘Jim, do you love me ?’
” ‘Girl — girl!’ he cried, and the arm that was not holding the wailing baby went out to me, ‘how I do love you.’
” ‘Then,’ I chose my words carefully, ‘then, Jim, you’ll do as I say. You’ll take the baby to the poor farm—tonight !’
I touched his arm.
“Jim looked down at the tiny wrinkled up face. Then he looked at me.
” ‘Girl,’ he said huskily, ‘you don’t mean it. Why, the note—it’s a sign, and the baby’s so little— ‘
“I drew myself up to my full height and looked at him there in the moonlight. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘you must choose between me—and the baby !’ I stopped.
“Jim’s face grew deadly white and his hands came together tight—tight—on the little blanket.
” ‘Do you mean it ?’ he asked in a curiously hushed tone.
“‘I mean it!’ I answered back.
” ‘Then I choose the baby,’ he half sobbed. ‘Oh, girl— don’t you see—why are you so hard ?’ But I walked away.”
The Lonely Lady paused for a moment.
“I never saw him again,” she said in a low tone, “he went away soon, and I—I went away too. The town was full of people, but the loneliness killed me—almost. I never saw the moon that I didn’t think of that night and the look in his eyes—I never saw a tiny child that I didn’t think of the little forsaken baby. I’ve thought many times what has become of it and wondered. … My house is very quiet —there are no footsteps on the stairs, no smiling little faces; to peep out at me from the shadows!” Her voice trailed off into the stillness.
“But,” I questioned, “didn’t you ever hear anything, at all?”
“Jim was an orphan,” answered the Lonely Lady, “and at first I was too proud to ask questions—later on people did not know. They said, ‘^out west’—but the country was a larger, harder country fifty-five years ago.” She sighed, “I have never married,” she said.
Outside the wind was wailing as it banged with frost-bitten fingers at the shutters, but inside the soft rose glow of the fire fell over the silver hair, the sad face and the somber dress of the Lonely Lady. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was calm, but her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.
The little flames—grown huge, cut into the log and with a small crash and a shower of hissing golden sparks, it fell into the grate.
The Lonely Lady lives alone. She has a glowing fire, and a sunny window, and the cat, but she lives alone. And though she laughs charmingly, and tells gently little jokes, and talks sympathetically, a shadow dwells behind the softness of her eyes that may be hurt, or wistfulness, or both.
THE GREAT GIFT
YEARS ago in the sweetly scented, hay-filled warmth of a stable a Mother bent over a smiling Baby and kissed his little face. And as she kissed him the angel chorus sang an anthem high in the heavens, and a glorious star shone over the land.
It was the first Christmas day—but you all know the beautiful story. You know how the shepherds crept in to adore him, and how the sheep huddled together and watched the scene; you know how three wise men hurried from the East bringing gifts to lay at the feet of the infant Savior.
It is about these gifts that I want to talk.
One of the wise men brought gold with him, glittering yellow gold, and the other two brought frankincense and myrrh—two very costly products of the Orient. The gold, frankincense and myrrh were the most valued possessions of the three wise men, and yet they gave them at the silent bidding of a gleaming light that shone from Heaven and led to a stable.
Since the first Christmas the giving of gifts has grown until it has become a mighty custom, a custom followed by nearly all of the inhabitants of Christian nations. And al- though some of the gifts are gifts inspired by a holy light, other gifts are very commonplace things, very, very far from God.
I know a girl who begins long before Christmas to make and buy a multitude of presents. For months she works and saves and worries (for she is not a rich girl), and the day after Christmas she crumples up, and smiles whitely, and says:
“I’m glad, glad, that it’s over for another year!”
“If you feel that way,” I said once, “why do you bother to give so many presents? Surely they don’t all go to rela- tives and dear friends.”
The girl laughed mirthlessly. “To tell you the absolute truth,” she answered, “I have fewer relatives than any of the girls. As for friends—sometimes I think that there is no meaning to the word !”
My eyes opened very wide.
“Then,” I wondered out loud—”why do you give so many gifts?”
“Because”—she hesitated a moment before she answered —”because they all give presents to me and I’ve got to do something in return. It takes all of my money, and most of my time, but it’s got to be done.”
The spirit of Christmas isn’t in this kind of a gift, but oh, friends of mine, how many of you have never given a present from a sense of duty?
There is another type of gift that is just as unpleasant, just as foreign to the true Christmas spirit as the gift of loveless duty. It is the gift given by a person who worries about it, makes other folk uncomfortable, and then finally hurries out at the last minute, dashing down crowded aisles, tiring already tired shopgirls, and finally getting the wrong thing in the whirl of nervousness and excitement.
It is called the Thoughtless Gift.
But then, shining through the mist of unhappiness caused by the wrong kind of giving, there is the Gift of Love, and every gift of love balances a number of thoughtless ones.
I know a woman who lives alone in a tiny apartment. She has no family, and not a great many people get near enough to her to be truly her friends. Christmas is a lonely season to her—for Christmas is essentially a family day.
Some people would sit in a corner and cry because they were alone, but this lady has lived in the city long enough to know its secrets. She has seen tenement rooms that nine hungry, sleepy, tired people live in, and her Christmas time is spent in trying to bring a little joy into their lives.
The elaborate dinner that she could have is turned by magic into baskets full of simple food, the clothes and toys that she
would buy if she had children of her own, into gifts for children who have never before seen a whole garment or a present. It is her kind of giving that makes Christmas—Christmas.
A month or so ago I got a bulky note from a dear correspondent of mine. In the course of her letter she spoke of Christmas, and told me a charming little incident. “Perhaps you can use it,” she wrote. I am going to tell you in her own words as nearly as I can remember.
A little girl was sitting at her grandmother’s knee telling about the gifts that she had purchased for her family and friends. She named them over gleefully ; a muffler for father, a scarf for mother, a jacknife for brother.
“Nobody,” she finished happily, “is forgotten !”
The grandmother, a dear old Scotch woman, looked down tenderly into the glowing face, and when she spoke her voice was very soft, very reverent.
“Dearie,” she said, “dearie, dinna ye forget that ’tis Jesus’ own birthday? What is your gift—to him?”
Friends of mine, “God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son !” And the gift made so many years ago, the gift that began so gloriously in a manger and ended so heroically on a cross, has left a heritage of love for hun- dreds, for thousands of years. And yet on that Son’s birth- day we often forget a gift to him!
A gift to God sounds rather subtle, rather difficult to understand, doesn’t it? But when you stop to think it isn’t very hard to find a suitable birthday present; for a gift to God is usually a gift that, like your face in the mirror, re- flects back to you. Perhaps a bright smile when your throat is choked up with sobs, a cheery word when you feel like saying something cross, would be an acceptable present.
Perhaps a bit of love to one of the Father’s unhappy chil- dren, or a helpful hand to one of his frightened ones, would be a thoughtful gift. Perhaps looking at the sunset when your heart is near to bursting with thunder clouds would make him understand.
Oh ! it seems to me that we should give God a Christmas gift—a present that would last through all the year—even as his gift to the world has lasted through all the ages.
I read a story one day about a little girl who wanted to give her mother a present on her birthday. The family were buying beautiful gifts, but the little girl owned one round copper penny—and no more.
At last the birthday came and the mother—a radiant mother who thanked God for her children—was given the gifts that the older ones had saved up their money to buy.
When the last box had been opened, the little girl, with tear- filled eyes, handed her a small crumpled letter with a penny enclosed.
“Deer Muvver,” it read, “this is the only muney I have, but I’m giving you all my luv with it.” Oh, people every- where, no matter how poor we are, we can still give our love—and that is the Great Gift.
“For God so loved the world that he gave his only be- gotten Son.” And on the day of his giving the wise men followed a star of heavenly brightness that led to a dimly lighted stable. Near—oh, so near—in the sky of our souls there is a star glowing with a pure silver light leading us, and if we follow it we shall surely reach holy places here on earth. The wise men brought their most precious posses- sions, gold, frankincense and myrrh, to lay at the Christ child’s feet. . . . What shall we give to Him.
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Lovely. Thank you for sharing pictures of your home too!
Thank you for the sweet comment 🙂