Christmas gifts had become Christmas blessings.

When I served as a Bishop, there was a young man who, as a boy of thirteen, led his quorum of deacons in a successful search for the Christmas spirit. He and his companions lived in a neighborhood in which many elderly widows of limited means resided. All the year long, the boys had saved and planned for a glorious Christmas party. They were thinking of themselves, until the Christmas spirit prompted them to think of others. Frank, as their leader, suggested to his companions that the funds they had saved so carefully be used not for the planned party, but rather for the benefit of three elderly widows who resided together.

The boys made their plans. As their bishop, I needed but to follow. With the enthusiasm of a new adventure, the boys purchased a giant roasting chicken, the potatoes, the vegetables, the cranberries, and all that comprises the traditional Christmas feast. To the widows' home they went, carrying their gifts of treasure. Through the snow and up the path to the tumbledown porch they came. A knock at the door, the sound of slow footsteps, and then they met.

In the unmelodic voices characteristic of thirteen-year-olds, the boys sang: "Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright." They then presented their gifts. Angels on that glorious night of long ago sang no more beautifully, nor did Wise Men present gifts of greater meaning. I gazed at the faces of those wonderful women and thought to myself, "Somebody's mother." I then looked on the countenances of those noble boys and reflected, "Somebody's son." There then passed through my mind the words of the immortal poem by Mary Dow Brine:

The woman was old and ragged and gray

And bent with the chill of the Winter's day.

The street was wet with a recent snow,

And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long,

Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by,

Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street, with laughter and shout,

Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,

Hailing the snow piled white and deep. …[One] paused beside her and whispered low,

"I'll help you cross, if you wish to go." …

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,

For all she's aged and poor and slow.

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand

To help my mother, you understand,

If ever she's poor and old and gray,

When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head

In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was, "God be kind to the noble boy,

Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"

Not one of those boys ever forgot that precious pilgrimage. Christmas gifts had become Christmas blessings.