“Red Rover, Red Rover…!”

(are you linking arms?)

By Carrie Wilkerson

In my business…myjob — I work primarily with women. As a matter of fact, my husband is the only “non-chic” on staff or in the client base. (lucky guy And while I love working at home and being “in charge” of my income and my schedule (scary as that seems) - it can sometimes be lonesome and overwhelming!

It took me awhile to realize that I did not have to be in business BY myself! I could join forces with other women and make some great friends(men and women) that were like-minded!

(Don’t tell anyone…but I’m even very close friends with many women who are in direct competition with my company.) GASP!!!

And…hang onto your chair — I will also admit that I even MENTOR many of them in business so that they will be more successful! (EEK!)

I have even had gals work FOR me that then left my company to start something similar and I helped them get started.

WHY? Why would I do such a thing? That is SOOOOO un-business-like!

Well…what I have found is that we are stronger and more powerful when we hold onto each other. Have you ever heard that “two heads are better than one?”

And what about Mary Kay Ash’s famous philosophy that “if you have an idea and I have an idea - then we EACH have JUST ONE idea…but if you share your idea with me and I do the same…we EACH have TWO ideas!”

Brilliant! And in a spiritual sphere, I’ve also heard it said that each of us are angels with just one wing…and we can only fly by embracing one another…)

This reminds me of the playground game from elementary school…the game where you have two lines facing each other and someone from the “other” team tries to break through your team’s line.

RED ROVER — remember that one??

You can stand beside each other, not touching…you can hold hands or you can link arms with each other. Which do you think makes the strongest bond?

You’re right! Linking arms makes us a powerful force…personally and professionally!

Look around you today - who can you link arms with?

Maybe it’s time you linked arms with your spouse and kids for a stronger family!

Maybe you should link arms with your co-workers?

What about other members of your congregation or neighborhood?

What about other men and women in business or building a business!

I know you will be thrilled with the results when you begin proactively “linking arms” this week!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Be Beautiful! Be Positive! Be Blessed! Carrie Wilkerson is an author, International speaker and The Barefoot Executive! (www.theBossMovie.com ) She is a wife, mother and business woman and enjoys singing with a group of friends in her spare time.

The Sands of Forgiveness
by Author Unknown

A story tells that two friends were walking through the desert. During some point of the journey they had an argument, and one friend slapped the other one in the face.

The one who got slapped was hurt, but without saying anything, wrote in the sand:

TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE.

They kept on walking until they found an oasis, where they decided to take a bath. The one who had been slapped got stuck in the mire and started drowning, but the friend saved him.

After he recovered from the near drowning, he wrote on a stone:

TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SAVED MY LIFE.

The friend who had slapped and saved his best friend asked him, “After I hurt you, you wrote in the sand and now, you write on a stone, why?”

The other friend replied “When someone hurts us we should write it down in sand where winds of forgiveness can erase it away. But, when someone does something good for us, we must engrave it in stone where no wind can ever erase it.”

LEARN TO WRITE YOUR HURTS IN THE SAND AND TO CARVE YOUR BENEFITS IN STONE.

FEAR

by Barbara Elliott Carpenter

Of all the negative emotions we can experience, fear may be the most paralyzing. It can cause us to hesitate when action is imperative, or it can make us react too quickly in a situation that needs careful consideration. Fear of the unknown may keep us from something truly wonderful. On the other hand, fear of letting something “too good to be true” slip away can be disastrous.

For seven years, I postponed a surgical procedure that had the potential to make my life five hundred percent better than it was. I lived in constant, often excruciating, pain. General anesthesia had come close to ending my life three times. The alternative, a spinal block, scared me to death!

When the pain I felt daily was worse than my fear of death, I decided that it was time to at least talk to a surgeon about a knee replacement. I took my courage in both hands and went to see the doctor recommended by several of my friends, both men and women, who were all ecstatic with their new joints.

Only after the drop-dead-gorgeous surgeon had explained the procedure to me did I mention my problem with general anesthesia. “We’ll do a spinal block,” the six-foot-seven, blond-turning-to-silver Dr. Adonis told me. I blinked several times and swallowed hard before I replied.

“Uh.isn’t that painful?” I asked. The doctor leaned back in his swivel chair and smiled.

“Some say it’s no worse than a bee sting,” he said. “Others seem to have more of a problem with it. It’s really not bad. We’ll keep you lightly sedated during the whole surgical procedure, and you will be fine.”

I blinked some more. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how many spinals he had received in his lifetime. Before I could retort, he continued.

“When would you like to schedule the knee replacement?” Since it was mid-October, January seemed far enough away to give me pondering time, just in case I needed to re-think the situation.

“Maybe mid-January?” I asked.

“Fine. How about January seventeenth?” I swallowed hard again and agreed.

January came awfully fast. No matter how many people I talked to about the spinal block, I couldn’t get a positive consensus that there would be little pain. It was the part of the whole procedure that I dreaded the most. Just the thought of baring my vulnerable backbone to a needle of monstrous size (according to several witnesses) gave me cold chills. I took the most sensible approach: I stuck my head in the sand (snow is more appropriate) and tried not to think about it, which was a miserable failure.

At six a.m. on the morning of January seventeenth, 2006, I allowed a blue-swathed nurse to wheel me into the pre-op cubicle. Another lady in blue proceeded to paint and scrub my entire right leg with a sudsy iodine-y substance, which she did for several minutes.

“Does a spinal block really hurt?” I blurted out my fear. The woman nodded.

“It can,” she said, “but usually no more than a hornet’s sting.” A hornet’s sting? I remembered how badly honeybee and bumblebee stings hurt when I was a child. I considered hobbling away from the gurney, but I had already come this far. I couldn’t let my children and grandchildren think that I was a total wimp.

After two failed attempts to puncture a vein my left hand, the anesthetist attacked my right. He finally found a vein, but his finesse was less than wonderful. I frowned. “I bet that spinal is going to hurt a lot worse, isn’t it?” I asked.

“It might,” he replied. I was not reassured.

After what seemed like a very short time, someone said, “Let’s get this show on the road.” I knew a moment of total, absolute terror.

“Don’t I need a spinal?” I asked. General laughter greeted my remark.

“Sweetie, you’ve already had it.”

“Oh.” Duh, as my granddaughter would have said. I wondered why I couldn’t remember getting the spinal block. Oh well, I wasn’t about to argue with them.

During the surgery I seemed to be totally aware of everything that was done, but I’m sure that I drifted in and out of consciousness. I heard the conversation, even took part in it occasionally; and I could see the tall surgeon’s masked face above the blue screen that was draped across my chest to block the arena of action from my vision.

I heard the sound of the instrument that prepared the bones for the prosthesis, and the whine of the drill that screwed four, three-inch screws into my lower leg. Even when the hammering began, I thought: Hmmmm.that’s interesting. They must be pounding on my leg, but I can’t feel a thing.

Intermittent sedation made the whole process seem very short. In about three hours I was wheeled into the room that would become mine for the next three days. My family waited to commiserate. “Piece of cake!” I announced. That, of course, was before sensation came back into my leg. Still, even though the pain of the surgery did get really nasty, and the therapy was sometimes more than I thought I could bear, it was worth it.

Close to five months after the fact, I walked without pain. I could go up and down stairs without moans and groans at each step. I could cross my legs, as I had not been able to do for years. Still, there is one thing that bothers me.

If my experience with the spinal block was bad enough that the anesthetist gave me something to make me forget the entire procedure, HOW BAD WAS IT? DID I MAKE A COMPLETE FOOL OF MYSELF WITH HYSTERICS?

DID I SCREAM, BABBLE, WHIMPER OR WHAT? DID I MAKE A SWEET, GRANDMOTHERLY PASS AT DOCTOR ADONIS? WHAT HAPPENED THAT THEY DIDN’T WANT ME TO REMEMBER?

Now here I am, new knee, new life, new outlook; and the thought of a spinal block still makes me cringe with fear. If I weren’t so busy with my new abilities, I could drive myself crazy with dread of the possibility of another spinal block somewhere down the road. How asinine is that? To quote a wonderful source of wisdom: “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

How moronic is unreasonable fear? I don’t know. I just know that when it comes to the thought of a spinal block, I must be an absolute moron. I guess I’ll have to keep in mind that the things we sometimes fear the most never come to pass. In my case, even if someday I must repeat the spinal block thing without benefit of the amnesia-inducing drug, I can get through it. To paraphrase a quote from our own President Franklin D. Roosevelt: “We have nothing to fear but fear, itself.”

POSTSCRIPT

Exactly six months to the day after the knee replacement, I underwent emergency gall bladder surgery. Three days earlier, I had awakened to such pain in my abdomen and back that I literally bent, stooped and stretched into every position I could attain to ease it. Unable to convince myself that “it’s just a belly-ache,” I agreed to let my husband take me to the hospital.

When the ER physician lowered the cubicle table, I held up my hands. “Don’t move me!” I commanded. “The pain has stopped.” The doctor stood frozen for a moment before he grinned and replied.

“Ma’am, I have to examine you.”

“Okay, just don’t move me!” The moment he touched my upper right abdomen, I yelped. He ordered an ultra-sound, which showed a diseased gallbladder encased in fluid, infected and containing a stone the size of a small walnut. I was admitted to the hospital, and for three days I took in only fluids and massive IV doses of antibiotics.

My family and I met with the anesthetist and expressed our fears and concerns about the general anesthetic and my previous experiences with it. In my case, I was more afraid that the pain would return before they could take out the offensive bladder! For that reason, I actually had no fear at all of the surgery.

I chattered all the way to the operating room, making what I thought were brilliant one-liner jokes, a result of the pre-op happy shot. In the operating arena, I looked at the shiny fixtures and lights; and I remarked that there was no place for my arms on the table. “How’s this?” asked a masked attendant, as he took my right arm and strapped it to an extension.

“That’ll work,” I quipped. “I’m not going to remember any of this, am I?”

“Probably not,” was the reply..

“Mrs. Carpenter, I’m going to call your husband. You’re doing fine.” I opened my eyes a slit, just enough to see that I was in a large room with other patients in various stages of recovery. Well, well, I thought. Looks like I made it. “Mr. Carpenter, your wife is waking up and is doing well,” the attendant spoke into the phone.

“May I talk to him?” I asked.

“Of course.” She put the receiver to my ear.

“Hey,” I said, “piece a’cake.”

The next evening my husband took me home, and recovery was quick and relatively painless. I took no pain medication at all after the surgery, simply because I didn’t need it. Although there had been no time to indulge my usual fear and dread of a surgical procedure, I think my experience with the knee replacement and my nearly paralyzing fear of the spinal block had prepared me. I was able to figuratively “put my money where my mouth was” and respond to a need, instead of reacting in fear.

However, the contemplated surgery to “unfreeze” a frozen shoulder is on hold. Two major surgeries in six months are enough for this old gal! Well, maybe next year..

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The third novel by Barbara Elliott Carpenter was released in November, 2007. Starlight, Starbright., Wish I May, Wish I Might., and The Wish I Wish Tonight comprise the trilogy, a family saga beginning post World War II and ending in present day. Enthusiastic readers have compared the first book to To Kill a Mockingbird and go on to state that each succeeding book is better than the previous ones. Carpenter’s work appears in Chicken Soup For the Soul books and various national magazines. She is currently working on the biography of a former Cuban physician who escaped from Castro’s dictatorship in 1961. The book, tentatively titled “Without a Quarter in my Pocket,” is slated for release in late 2008. Carpenter enjoys painting with oils and acrylics, loves to travel and spend time with her son, daughter and four grandchildren. She and her husband reside in a home they recently built beside a small lake in Central Illinois. She welcomes comments and questions and can be reached at bjlogger2@aol.com. Her web site is www.barbaraelliottcarpenter.com .

Attitude
Author unknown

Submitted by Emma Jo Krause

There once was a woman who woke up one morning,
looked in the mirror, and noticed she had only three hairs on her head.
Well,” she said, “I think I’ll braid my hair today?”
So she did and she had a wonderful day.

The next day she woke up,
looked in the mirror and saw that she had only two hairs on her head.
“H-M-M,” she said,
“I think I’ll part my hair down the middle today?”
So she did and she had a grand day.

The next day she woke up,
looked in the mirror and noticed that she had only one hair on her head.
“Well,” she said,
“today I’m going to wear my hair in a pony tail.”
So she did and she had a fun, fun day.

The next day she woke up,
looked in the mirror and noticed that there wasn’t a single hair on her head.
“YEA!” she exclaimed,
“I don’t have to fix my hair today!”

Attitude is everything.

Be kinder than necessary,
for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.

Live simply,

Love generously,

Care deeply,

Speak kindly…….

Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass.

It’s about learning to dance in the rain.

A Creed for Self-Discipline

Willpower:
Recognizing that the power of will is the supreme court over all other departments of my mind, I will exercise it daily, when I need the urge to action for any purpose; and I will form habits designed to bring the power of my will into action at least once daily.

Emotions:
Realizing that my emotions are both positive and negative I will form daily habits which will encourage the development of the positive emotions, and aid me in converting the negative emotions into some form of useful action.

Reason:
Recognizing that both my positive emotions and my negative emotions may be dangerous if they are not controlled and guided to desirable ends, I will submit all my desires, aims and purposes to my faculty of reason, and I will be guided by it in giving expression to these.

Imagination:
Recognizing the need for sound plans and ideas for the attainment of my desires, I will develop my imagination by calling upon it daily for help in the formation of my plans.

Conscience:
Recognizing that my emotions often err in their over-enthusiasm, and my faculty of reason often is without the warmth of feeling that is necessary to enable me to combine justice with mercy in my judgments, I will encourage my conscience to guide me as to what is right and what is wrong, but I will never set aside the verdicts it renders, no matter what may be the cost of carrying them out.

Memory:
Recognizing the value of an alert memory, I will encourage mine to become alert by taking care to impress it clearly with all thoughts I wish to recall, and by associating those thoughts with related subjects which I may call to mind frequently.

Subconscious Mind:
Recognizing the influence of my subconscious mind over my power of will, I shall take care to submit to it a clear and definite picture of my major purpose in life and all minor purposes leading to my major purpose, and I shall keep this picture constantly before my subconscious mind by repeating it daily.

Signed_____________________________

Discipline over the mind is gained, little by little, by the formation of habits which one may control. Habits begin in the mind; therefore, a daily repetition of this creed will make one habit-conscious in connection with the particular kind of habits which are needed to develop and control the six departments of the mind.

The mere act of repeating the names of these departments has an important effect. It makes one conscious that these departments exist; that they are important; that they can be controlled by the formation of thought-habits; that the nature of these habits determines one’s success or failure in the matter of self-discipline

Napoleon Hill
Excerpt from The Master-Key To Riches

Don’t Quit

Author Unknown

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won if he’d stuck it out.
Don’t give up, though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man;
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor’s cup,
And he learned too late, when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are -
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit -
It’s when things seem worst that you mustn’t quit.

The Strand I Could Not Fix

By Janet Perez Eckles

Like fog in the morning, the spirit of Christmas had vanished. Still, I shuffled in the garage. One by one, I retrieved the bins I’d stored the previous Christmas. While the aroma of sugar cookies wafted through the air and Silent Night played in the background, I began the decorating.

Placing the nativity scene as the focal point of our family room, I spread the rest of the decorations around the house: red and green candles, musical boxes with winter scenes, and bright red poinsettias framed with green garland adorned with burgundy, velvet bows. They all transformed our home into a lively winterland.

Next, I retrieved three stockings to fill the marked places above the fireplace; each embroidered with our sons’ names: Jason, Jeff, and Joe. Once Jason and Jeff’s were hung, with tears burning my eyes, I clutched Joe’s against my chest.

The empty stocking sears my heart. It’s been five years since the Lord called Joe home. Five years that Joe’s absence left an emptiness we can almost touch. And five years that God’s grace wiped away portions of the grief that flogged our hearts. But often, it’s the scorching pain that opens our eyes to a bigger picture.

Years ago, when our three sons, including Joe, were still young, I focused on providing a perfect Christmas; a perfect tree to wrap a perfect celebration. As a result, little things tended to roil in me such as a light strand that refused to shine because of a burned bulb. Annoyed at the glitch, I promptly set off to resolve it -I fussed, I rearranged, plugged and unplugged until frustration grew hot in me.

How foolish and silly. I focused on that one bulb, dismissing the glow of the star atop the Christmas tree. I’d done the same with light bulbs that burned in my life-from broken relationships to shattered plans. Exerting tons of energy trying to fix them, I missed the star– the one that gave significance to my life.

When that void in our heart aches to be filled, it’s the star of comfort that makes it whole. When bitter sorrow robs the spirit of Christmas, it’s the star of His genuine love that whispers joy. When a health diagnosis shakes our world, it’s the star of reassurance that shines the certainty of new tomorrow’s. It’s the same star that never loses the brilliance of hope, incomprehensible hope, one we can only embrace when all strands of life burn out.

With eyes focused on the star, I hang Joe’s stocking along with his brothers’; not empty anymore-but filled with sweet memories–his wit, laughter, his hugs and kisses.

For that reason, God called it His “Morning Star” to dispel our darkness, dry our tears and repair strands we cannot fix.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Janet Perez Eckles is an author and national speaker. She loves to host visitors to her site, and imparts bits of inspiration in her blog.  www.janetperezeckles.com

SECRET SANTA
©2007 Kathleene S. Baker

The man had just filled his car with gas; he was cold, wet, and ready to head for home. He opened his car door and bent down to climb inside.
“Sir, sir.”
He glanced in the direction of the frail voice to find a well-dressed, elderly lady attempting to get his attention.
He closed the car door and walked towards her. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
The older woman explained that the gas pump was not working properly, and asked if he knew what she was doing wrong.
“These are new pumps and very touchy-even for me. I’ve found the easiest thing to do is forget locking them while I fill; they keep shutting off for some reason.”
“Oh my! I can’t keep pressure on that handle until my tank is full. My hands don’t have much strength in them anymore.” She cast her blue eyes to the ground in frustration.
“I’d be honored to fill your tank for you!” The man’s Texas accent was gentle and he gave her a little wink. “By the way, I love your British accent.”
“Yes, a British accent in Texas.people always notice!” She smiled. “We just came to the States a few years ago. That’s my husband in the car.” She paused for a moment, “He has Alzheimer’s now.”
“I’m so very sorry.for both of you.” After a slight lull the gentleman continued. “Why don’t you get back in the car while I do this; the snow is picking up and you’re going to get wet.”
She was a lovely woman with snowy-white hair; her attire was prim and proper as one would expect from a Brit. “I’d rather visit if you don’t mind. Our son is out of town for Christmas; he’s with his wife’s family this year and I’m feeling a bit blue.”
A knot formed in the Texan’s throat and he hoped to change the subject. “Just what are the two of you doing out in this weather? I hope your drive home is a short one. You know these Texas drivers aren’t the best when it comes to snow and sleet,” he teased.
“We’re on our way home from a Christmas party. The medical center has one each year for the Alzheimer patients. They are rather like children’s parties-and they have Santa visit. Oftentimes patients will have moments they recall things from their past. Some sing along to Christmas carols when they haven’t carried on an actual conversation in quite a long while.”
“Did anyone recognize Santa today?”
“Oh, yes, my husband recognized Santa and tried to steal his hat! He even said, ‘Ho, ho, ho-Merry Christmas.’ His recollection was rather brief but it was the highlight of my day.” She grinned.
The gas pump clicked off, the woman swiped her credit card to make payment, and turned to thank the man who had been willing to help her. The two were saying their farewells when the squeal of brakes, a thud, and breaking glass at the intersection caught their attention.
“Oh, my!” The lady whimpered with a distressed expression. “It’s getting so slick. I’ve got to hurry and get home.”
“Ma’am, I’d be honored to follow you in case you have problems.”
She hesitated momentarily and then appeared relieved, “Oh, I’d be so grateful. I can’t thank you enough. And by the way, my name is Margaret.” She reached out to shake hands with her new friend.
“Margaret, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Ray.” He patted her hand gently before they released their grasp. “You just drive slowly; I’ll be right behind you.”
When Margaret pulled into her garage Ray stopped curbside. “I just want to be sure you get inside safely,” he shouted.
Margaret waved and asked him to wait for a moment-then nodded and spoke to her neighbor hanging Christmas lights. She guided John into the house, quickly reappeared in the garage, and motioned for Ray to pull into the driveway.
She thanked Ray again and soon mentioned this being the first Christmas she and her husband had ever spent alone. Ray, always a soft touch for older folks, was happy to listen. She spoke fondly of traditions her family adhered to when she was a child in England and revealed an interesting glimpse into her past.plus a taste of her cherished memories from across the pond.
“You know mistletoe is very traditional in England. My first “real” kiss was under the mistletoe when I was a teenager. Oh, what memories I have.” For a split second, Margaret looked like a young girl again.
Several minutes passed before Margaret began to shiver and they were forced to say farewell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Christmas morn found Margaret peeking out her front door just as the sun crested the horizon. She stepped outside, instantly clasped her hands like a small child, and peered up and down the street. With not a soul in sight she began to examine the items discovered on her porch.each one dredged up memories of years gone by in Merry Old England.
Just above her head hung an arrangement of mistletoe adorned with elegant lace; she touched it gently. Bedecked with Victorian ornaments, a small, lighted Christmas tree sat in the corner-beneath it a homemade mincemeat pie wrapped securely and tied with golden ribbon. The card attached said only, “From: Santa.” Hanging from the doorknob a brilliant red Santa Claus hat with tag, “To: John.”
Margaret called to John; he slowly made his way and stepped outside. Nothing on the porch sparked his interest until Margaret placed the Santa hat in his hands. After staring at it and stroking the velvety softness, he plopped it onto his head. It sat askew but John’s face beamed as his voice rang out across the neighborhood, “Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Parked several houses away, a Secret Texas Santa sniffed and wiped at a lone tear. a happy tear. “Merry Christmas and God Bless.” He smiled and drove towards home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathy was born and raised in the small town of Augusta, Kansas, a few miles outside of Wichita. She married a native Texan, Jerry, in 1977 and was soon transplanted to Dallas. A large city offers many things, but she misses the slower pace of small town America. Kathy has two stepchildren and four grandchildren. Pets have always played a huge part in her life. In fact, they were her inspiration to begin writing. Kathy’s website can be viewed at: YELLOW ROSE (www.txyellowrose.com) or she can be contacted at Lnstrlady@aol.com

The story that inspired the White Envelope Project

This story was originally published in the December 14, 1982 issue of Woman’s Day magazine. It was the first place winner out of thousands of entries in the magazine’s “My Most Moving Holiday Tradition” contest in which readers were asked to share their favorite holiday tradition and the story behind it. Woman’s Day continues to support this tradition and The White Envelope Project today.

For the Man Who Hated Christmas
by Nancy W. Gavin
It’s just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas–oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it–overspending… the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma—the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler’s ears.
It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That’s when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition–one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take down the envelope.
Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This story is indeed a true story and inspired four siblings from Atlanta, GA to start The White Envelope Project, a nonprofit organization dedicated to promoting this tradition and charitable giving. The White Envelope Project founders are regularly in touch with the family in the article and are thrilled to have their support. Sadly, Nancy Gavin (the author) died less than two years after her husband - also of “the dreaded cancer.” Her legacy lives on as the Gavin family and now thousands of others continue to celebrate the “white envelope” tradition each year. For more information about The White Envelope Project or to honor a loved one through a “white envelope” gift this year, please visit their website www.WhteEnvelopeProject.org.

The Ivory and Gold Tablecloth
By Howard C. Schade
At Christmas time, men and women everywhere gather in their churches to wonder anew at the greatest miracle the world has ever known. But the story I like best to recall was not a huge miracle — not exactly.
It happened to a pastor who was very young. His church was very old. Once, long ago, it had flourished. Famous men had preached from its pulpit, prayed before its altar. Rich and poor alike had worshipped there and built it beautifully. Now, the good days had passed from the section of town where it stood. But the pastor and his young wife believed in their run-down church. They felt that with hard work and lots of faith they could get it in shape. Together they went to work.
But, late in December, a severe storm whipped through the river valley, and the worst blow fell on the church — a huge chunk of rain-soaked plaster fell out of the inside wall just behind the altar. Sorrowfully the pastor and his wife swept away the mess, but they couldn’t hide the ragged hole.
The pastor looked at it and had to remind himself quickly, “Thy will be done!” But his wife wept, “Christmas is only two days away!”
That afternoon the dispirited couple attended the auction held for the benefit of a youth group. The auctioneer opened a box and shook out of its folds a gloriously beautiful, very ornately sewn, gold and ivory lace tablecloth.
It was a magnificent item, nearly 15 feet long. But it, too, dated from a long vanished era. Who, today, had any use for such a thing? There were a few halfhearted bids. Then the pastor was seized with what he thought was a great idea.
He bid it in for $6.50.
He carried the glorious gold and ivory lace cloth back to the church and very carefully put it up on the wall behind the altar. It completely hid the hole! And the extraordinary beauty of its shimmering handwork cast a fine, holiday glow over the chancel. It was a great triumph. Happily he went back to preparing his Christmas sermon.
Just before noon on the day of Christmas Eve, as the pastor was opening the church, he noticed a woman standing in the cold at the bus stop. “The bus won’t be here for 40 minutes!” he called, and invited her into the church to get warm.
She told him that she had come from the city that morning to be interviewed for a job as governess to the children of one of the wealthy families in town but she had been turned down. A Jewish war refugee, her English was imperfect.
The woman sat down in a pew and chafed her hands and rested. After a while she dropped her head and prayed. She looked up and saw the great gold and ivory cloth. She rose suddenly and walked up the steps of the chancel.
She looked at the beautiful tablecloth with remembering eyes.
The pastor smiled and started to tell her about the storm damage, but she didn’t seem to listen. She took up a fold of the cloth and lovingly rubbed it between her fingers, tears welled in her kind eyes. But they were happy tears of recognition.
“It is mine!” she said. “It is my banquet cloth!” She lifted up a corner and showed the surprised pastor that there were initials monogrammed on it. “My husband had the cloth made especially for me in Brussels! There could not be another like it.”
For the next few minutes the woman and the pastor talked excitedly together. She explained that she was Viennese; that being Jews, she and her husband wanted to flee from the Nazis. They were advised to go separately. Her husband put her on a train for Switzerland. They planned that he would join her as soon as he could arrange to ship their household goods across the border. She never saw him again. Later she heard that he had died in a concentration camp.
“I have always felt that it was my fault — to leave without him,” she said. “Perhaps these years of wandering have been my punishment!” The pastor tried to comfort her and urged her to take the beautiful cloth with her. But she refused saying, “no, no, the cloth has found it’s way to you. You need it. It has a purpose here. I want you to have it. I am happy knowing you have it.”
She gazed lovingly up at the magnificent gold and ivory lace cloth, then quietly went away.
As the church began to fill on Christmas Eve, it was clear that the magnificent cloth was going to be a great success. It had been skillfully designed to look its best by candlelight.
The glorious gold and ivory lace cloth actually glowed in the candlelight! It cast lovely fine designs on the walls and ceiling of the church. Everyone looked around in wonderment, and a tranquil ambiance was cast over all.
After the service, the pastor stood at the doorway. Many people told him that the church looked more beautiful than ever before.
From the generous donations that were given, a few days later the pastor had the local jeweler who was also the clock-and-watch repairman come to repair the church chimes.
The repairman’s gentle middle-aged face drew into a look of great astonishment! As if in a trance he walked right up to the beautiful cloth and looked intently!
“It is strange,” he said in his soft accent. “Many years ago my wife - God rest her — and I owned such a cloth. My wife put it on the table” — and here he gave a big smiled — “for holidays and when the Rabbi came to dinner.”
The pastor suddenly became very excited. He told the jeweler about the woman who had been in church to get warm, saw the cloth, and recognized it to be hers! The startled jeweler clutched the pastor’s arm. “Can it be?” he said through desperate tears.
Together the two got in touch with the family who had interviewed the women for the governess position, got her address, then they both drove to the city.
The jeweler knocked on the heavy, weathered, door. As it opened, there stood his beloved wife. The many years of separation were immediately washed away by their blissfully tears, as they held each other in loving embraces, never to be parted again. True love seems to find a way.
To all who hear this story, the joyful purpose of the storm was to knocked a hole in the wall of the church.
So Dear Ones, the next time something knocks a hole in your dreams, your goals - Just remember to have enough faith, enough belief in those dreams and goals, to lovingly and creatively hang your own brilliant lace cloth over the temporary mar. Then watch the miracles come.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This story was originally written by Howard C. Schade for the December 1954 issue of Reader’s Digest. It is a fitting way to get an early start on the upcoming Christmas season.