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The following are a collection of stories your site Moderator 
has written over the years.
All of the stories are true, or based upon events
that actualy happened.

We hope you will enjoy them and that they add a little to your
Christmas Spirit




I Do Believe
by Mary T Meier

In our house, we all still  “believe in Santa Claus.”
He is that wondrous spirit of God's faithful servant,
Saint Nicholas, who fills the hearts of Moms and Dads
and all peoples the world over,
with a willingness to bring the joy of hope
to their children and loved ones,
to fulfill their dreams of sugar plums and little toy drums; 
to plan, and shop and pay for, and wrap and hide
those wishes come true... all without taking any credit!
Such a self - less act of love!
We can’t help but be reminded of how
the story of Santa parodies
the story of the Birth of Our Lord.
For us, the waiting for Santa’s arrival
helps little ones understand how the generations
through the ages waited for The Savior. 
Being on our best behavior we hope will please Santa,
just as our prayers, good works and sacrifices
are offered to our Infant King.
Making a list inspires hope, and faith in things to come.
And when we find those gifts under the tree,
along with unexpected other, even more precious,
we are reminded that God will sometimes
give us what we want, but always, 
He gives us what we need.
The milk and cookies set out for Santa
are our small gift to him,
just as the offering of our meager selves to Our Lord
brings us His Most Precious Body and Blood in return. 
The stillness of Christmas eve,
waiting for the reindeer footsteps,
opens our minds and hearts enough
to hear the angels voices sing out
“Glory to the Newborn King!”
Nothing compares to the joy and peace
we find on Christmas morning;
hopes and dreams fulfilled,
as we celebrate the Birthday of our Savior. 
Just as a happiness beyond compare
awaits us in God’s Heavenly Kingdom.
So in our house, we don’t worry
about believing in Santa Claus.
He has taught us the true meaning of Christmas, 
that  he  learned long ago.




by Mary  T. Meier     12/02

This little ditty was written for my then 19 year old son
who really really wanted a cool racing steering wheel for his first car.

T'was the night before Christmas
and all through the town.
Stores that sell car parts had already closed down.
Matt was all snuggled and nestled in bed,
While visions of steering wheels danced in his head.

His stocking was hung by the chimney with care,
In the hope that St. Nicholas would put one in there.
And Mama in pajamas and Dad in his chair
Wanted to find one, but didn't know where.

On his letter to Santa Matt had written it down,
But a steering wheel like that one
just couldn't be found.
Santa searched high and Santa searched low,
But to other planets t'was unwilling to go.

At Napa and Schucks they were all out of stock.
(He hadn't pre-ordered.) Santa thought,
"What a crock!"
Not wanting to disappoint the poor lad,
Santa raced down to Walmart
and grabbed what they had.

A steering wheel cover it'd just have to be,
The kind you tie on, so cheaply made,
it should have been free!
He figured it better than nothing at all,
And at least Matt would know he'd been on the ball.

So he flew through the night,
made it back to the house;
All were still sleeping, even the mouse.
He wrapped up the box with the steering wheel cover,
And carefully tucked it in with the others.

And laying a finger inside of his nose,
Exhausted and cranky, up the chimney he rose.
The moon on the crest of the new fallen snow
Made him think it was noon; he was ready to blow!

But the reindeer weren't budging,
they'd put on the brakes.
"Hey Santa!," they shouted. "You made a mistake.
We ain't goin' nowhere 'til you're done with your work.
That dumb steering wheel cover
makes you look like a jerk.”

A real racing steering wheel sure would be cool.
"Come on, Santa," they pleaded.
"Whip out some 'yule.'"
So in through the window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the box and stuffed in some cash.

But thinking that maybe he should leave a note,
Explaining the substitute gift, Santa wrote:
"I'm not a mechanic, just a grumpy old elf.
Go to Schucks after New Years, and buy one yourself!"





The Humble Heart
by Mary T Meier


For all of us there have been times
when we may have wondered why God has left us
to fend for ourselves.
It is usually when we try so hard
to keep everything under our own control
because perhaps we have forgotten
under Whose control everything truly remains.
When we feel most alone,
it is then He comes to speak to us
in a mere whisper of His Power.
We are both humbled and exalted by the experience,
left in awe and wonder at His Majesty,
unable to deny it was His touch we felt,
inadequate to describe it.
I was having a bad day, a bad week in fact.
Frustration and disappointment clouded my thoughts
and formed impatient petitions in my prayers.
By that evening, I’d had enough, and I phoned a friend
for a shoulder to cry on, hoping she’d offer
at least sympathy if not some good advice.
Her kind words brought tears to my eyes,
though I still wondered where God was
in all my dilemma.
I reached for a tissue and dabbed at my eyes.
In that moment, my soul was overcome
with an imprint of His Love;
the sweetest consolation lay before me.
For on the tissue, my tears had formed
the shape of a perfect heart.
Coincidence? Maybe.  A colorful imagination? Possibly.
My astonishment? Absolute!
An overwhelming sense of  peace
and the knowing I was not alone in my sorrows
became complete.
I have the tissue still, though no heart of tears
dampens it now. It has faded away
along with the troubles of that day.
What remains is that imprint
of God’s ability and desire to make known to us
the ever-presence of His Divine Love.
And the lesson that we must sometimes
just wipe away the tears to  be able to see it.
Oh Jesus, Divine Infant Son of God
born in a manger so meek and humble of heart,
make our hearts like unto Thine!



by Mary T Meier

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but only two cars waiting in line
at the bank's drive-up window, minutes from closing time
on a long ago Christmas Eve.
I'd worked late that day, but hurried to get home
to my boys, like everyone else who rushed
through the season, on a quest for that solemn stillness
of Christmas morn, as the world lay wait
to hear the cries of that One newborn Babe.
I took a moment to catch my breath and reflect
while I waited in line. 
What a miraculous Christmas we would enjoy this year.
A distant loved one had sent a gift of $500!
Gold, frankincense and myrrh to this family of three.
Perhaps my two sons would escape some of the pain this year.

Their Dad had left us six years ago,
just weeks before the youngest was born.
On only my wages, we’d struggled so, even for the necessities.

Ah, but this year would be different.
With that gift of money, the bills were caught up,
and we were able to buy gifts for so many
of our relatives and friends,
not to mention how St. Nicholas would be filling
our own shoes. We'd had such fun shopping.
It was with great joy we'd tried to repay
some of the kindness and generosity extended to our family
over the years, our wish come true.
My reminiscing  brought me right back to attention
-why I was here at the bank hoping I'd make it
to the window in time.
In all the exhilaration of shopping for others,
I never even set aside one slim dime so my boys
could get me a gift.
But I realized it only that day when I got home from work.
My older boy looked stricken
when I told him the money was gone ...but not to worry,
I didn't really need a gift, that my Christmas would be merry because Santa would be so good to my boys.
But he would have none of that.
He reminded me of how we'd always "believed" in Santa,
that he was that mysterious spirit who teaches us to give,
and that Old St. Nick himself had learned that
from the Christ Child.
Too old to cry, too young to hold it in,
he pleaded with me to hurry to the bank
and withdraw the $10 from his school savings account.
He just had to have a gift for his Mama.
His anguish grabbed at my heart,
so I grabbed his passbook and had sped away to the bank.
As my turn in line finally came, I couldn't see the teller
through the shade she'd drawn over the window,
indicating I was indeed the last customer for the day,
but she called me by name.
I'd always appreciated that as well as the little puzzles
and balloons she’d given me for the boys
over the years I'd banked there.
I hurriedly filled out the withdrawal slip and then waited
for the ten dollars I knew would be magically transformed
into a million when the loving hands of my selfless child
picked out  a gift for his Mom.
A minute ticked by, then five. The teller returned to say
that I could not withdraw money from my son's account.
I was surprised at first, but "Come on," I laughed,
"it was only ten dollars, and you know me!" 
She said she'd call the branch downtown to verify signatures.

Minutes passed. It was 3:20, my heart was pounding.
It felt as if the stroke of midnight Christmas Eve approached. 

Would I have to tell my son he could put no gift for me
under the tree? Would he ever believe in Santa again?
Would I?
The teller pushed open the drawer.
On it lay the withdrawal slip, but no cash.
She was sorry but policy would simply not allow her
to give me my son's money without him there. 
No matter what. Not for Christmas, not for goodwill.
Not because it wasn't a thousand dollars, but only ten.
No way, no how.
There wasn’t time to run home and get him.
I pleaded that it was our last ten dollars, that I was his Mom! That it was for a gift!
The teller’s silence gave me her final answer.
My heart wrenched, and then broke. I sobbed and sobbed.
The teller waited while I cried, and while a ghost of some Christmas past washed over my soul.
As if in a dream, I remembered myself,
a little girl from a family as poor,
searching the back of her Daddy's closet,
looking for a necktie he mightn't have worn for awhile,
to wrap in waxed paper and tie up with her hair ribbons,
to place with the stealth of an elf
under a long ago sparkling evergreen.
I saw again his look of utter delight on Christmas morn,
as he carefully unwrapped the precious gift.
His eyes never saw the tie as one of his own,
but only twinkled with joy for his love of the giver.
“Mam?” The teller tapped the empty drawer.
I smiled then as tears gave way to an utter joy.
I took back the withdrawal slip, wished the teller
a very Merry Christmas and drove away.
In those moments  I’d come to know
my son had already presented me with me his gift.
He wanted to give me all that he had. 
A wealth without measure, the gift had come from his heart. 
It was huge and brightly wrapped and adorned with angels
and sparkling ribbons and bows, the best gift of all.
How could I have missed it! I hadn't left it at the bank!
I could hardly get it in the door when I arrived home
that Christmas Eve.
And though Scrooge closed the bank at 3:30 that day,
I found that the Christ Child had arrived early.



Dad’s Guardian Angel
by Mary T Meier

We have all received those emails, “FWDs” 
that seem to circulate the internet, sent by friends or family,
of poignant little stories that send shivers up your spine
as they tell of amazing coincidences or grace-filled moments
in someone’s life. You will probably need tissues before
you are half way through these stories,
and a lot of them warn you to “grab them ahead of time.”
I received one such email story one Christmas,
but it came with a  “bonus shiver” 
that is beyond coincidence. 
The email referred me to a site online called
“Touched by an Angel.” 
There I read the story of a little girl who faced a dilemma
of a “Daddy’s Day” function at her school.

Her father was not in her life.
Each line gave me a painful reminder
of how the father of my own children had left us
before the youngest was even born.
In ten years, he rarely calls, and he never visits.
In the story, the little girl’s mother worried
that she would not be able to cope
with seeing all the other classmate’s fathers in attendance. 
I had faced that worry myself, many times. 
When the little girl stood, alone, to introduce her Dad,
some of the other kids jeered at her,
saying  aloud that she “probably didn’t even have a dad.” 
This too had happened to my child. 
Another parent exclaimed that her Dad
was probably “a deadbeat dad, too lazy and selfish to attend.”  

This was a reality my kids faced on a daily basis. 
Finding so much of ourselves in this little story alone,
brought the tears to my eyes.
It went on to tell how she bravely defended his absence,

described what she remembered of her missing dad.
My children too live in a world of patchwork memories,
longing for the dad who left them.
In the story, she pointed toward the heavens
and remembered how he would always
bring her a pink rose to tell her
how he much he loved her.
The others in the classroom were touched by her story
and closed their eyes and listened. 
She finally revealed that her Daddy was in Heaven,
and that was just too far away to come for a visit. 
As  she ended her story, all in the room,
with eyes now wide open, were amazed beyond explanation

when they saw the pink rose
that now lie upon the little girl’s desk.
Her Daddy had come for a visit on Daddy’s Day after all.
It was a very moving little story, whether it is true or not. 
It made you think twice about little kids
who journey through childhood without a part of themselves.
It touched me in a more personal way
than other internet stories I had received.
I called my youngest son in to read the story over again,
with me by his side. 
He loved it and was reminded of his Dad.
Together we clicked on the “Go to Main Page” button,
to find out more about this site
that offered these touching stories. 
There, in big bold letters, we found the author’s name. 
It was exactly the same name as my missing husband,
my boy’s Dad. 
I turned to my son and saw one glistening tear
ready to fall from his eye as he said
“See Mom, my Dad comes and visits with me sometimes too."
True story. WE had been touched by an angel.




Come to The Manger
by Mary T Meier

I had to smile a little to myself,
through my coughing and sneezing,
how so many of us, all around the world,
had "the flu" over the Christmas holidays.
Did it help us to "keep Christ in Christmas"
by our murmuring the name of God in prayer,
or even, by some, in vain, that we might be relieved?
Did our suffering unite us to His suffering,
in spite of the desire of so many others to ignore Him,
making merry and partying the time away
as "holiday" instead of "holy day?"
Our family spent those days suffering
one ailment or another, mostly in bed,
with fever and chills.
But perhaps it was a blessing to be shut in,
away from the world.
And it helped us, as the wondrous working
of God's Grace always does in it's mysterious way,
to answer an invitation to travel in spirit
to that long-ago stable, that lay hidden in the shadows
of a darkness about to be illumined
by The Light of the World.
An invitation to spend the midnight hours of Christmas Eve,
not by the hearth and under the tree,
dazzled by fine wrappings and bows,
with music and merriment, but rather, prostrate,
in the company of angels plucking their golden harps,
and joining in their alleluias, voices raised in song
never before heard this side of Heaven,
as the first cries of our Newborn King
pierced the solemn stillness.
Our warm beds, our cottons and flannels,
our hot tea and soup, made for a stark contrast
with the barrenness of His birthplace
- a cold cave, smelling of hay, with animals mewing,
laying a top of His bed of straw,
wrapped only in His Mother's hand-made gift
of swaddling clothes.
We had thought of no gift to bring,
save the offering of our own misery,
and this He accepted as if we were Kings,
bringing gold, frankincense and myrrh.
As the days of Christmas proceeded,
and our own symptoms subsided,
we knew we would recover from this dreadful flu,
perhaps more able now to glimpse
the knowing in Mary's heart, that,
as ordained by The Father, her suffering
had only just begun.
And like other mothers around the world
who wearily got up from their sick-beds
to care for sick children,
and other sick fathers who got up and went to work anyway,
we got up also, and got over the worst of it.
But now, we were seemingly better able to remember
the flight taken by the Holy Family,
to escape the wrath of Herod,
fleeing in haste for their very lives.
I feel so very blessed to have had the flu during
the Christmas season, having been spared
the usual and artificial celebrations
in which most of the world participates
without ever mentioning why.
No Santa, nor caroling, nor colored lights or sleigh rides
could have ever carried me as far as did my fevered chills.
They beckoned me to come to the Manger
on that still and silent Holy Night.
When I finally felt fully recovered and well again,
I was blessed to keep close in my heart
the feeling that I had only just returned from Bethlehem.




We Three Kings
by Mary T Meier

As the celebration of the Season of Advent
and the Feast of the Epiphany in particular, draw to a close,
we are reminded of the Three Kings journeying on their way, 

having dutifully avoided any further contact with Herod, 

following that Star, filled with an indescribable wonder,
and blessed by the privilege of adoring our Newborn Savior
at His very crib side.
Having offered their gifts to the Holy Family,
they departed with a Gift beyond compare.
By their virtuous example, we begin our journey
through the new year in very much the same way.
We too are filled with wonder, and a new resolve,
to follow The Light, and keep the Babe of Bethlehem,
our God made Man, close in our hearts,
and to avoid what ever might take Him from us.
Traditionally, we wait until this time, to take down the lights, 

the tree, and to carefully wrap and pack away
those precious ornaments
and mementos of past Christmas joys.
We hang up the new clothes, try on the gloves,
and decide what to keep and what to exchange.
If the truth be known, we've received gifts
we think we could have better done without.
We wonder Who could have imagined we'd need such a thing!
The house looks bare and empty somehow.
As we go about cleaning, we rearrange the furniture.
The vacuum will scent the room with evergreen for some time; 

slivers of tinsel and garland will linger.
Come Spring, we plan a more thorough cleaning.
And so too our souls travel this same path.
We too soon forget some of those gifts from the Christ Child, 

those virtues with which our lives
should be decorated all throughout the year.
Some, we hide in the back of the closet
and try them on again only when seeking some favor
from the Gift Giver.
And others, we willingly exchange
for something of our own choosing,
which we mistakenly believe is of greater value.
We rearrange the furnishings of our conscience,
and though the sweet fragrance of Our Lord is ever present,
we so subtly begin down a road
of forgotten resolutions and delay.
We feel bare and empty and can't remember why. 

Oh great Kings, you three wise men, whom were blessed
to behold our Infant King with thine own eyes,
show us the path of sanctity!
Inspire us on our journey through life
with your wisdom and your fidelity.
By God's grace, may we be instilled with your fervor,
to quest after Our Lord until we find Him.
Remind us to carry with us always, as you did,
that sweet image of Jesus, to Light the way and guide us.
And no matter what the season, may we never lose sight
of The Greatest Gift of all. 










“The Adoration of the Magi” by Andrea Mantegna