Many years ago, my mom gave me what I like to call a Book of Love. She compiled a collection of Christmas stories, songs and scriptures–one for every day in December leading up to Christmas. She sewed a beautiful Christmas cover for the binder and fastened it with an elaborate bow.
Our little family has made it a Christmas tradition to snuggle up at bedtime to read from this wonderful treasure every night. Last night, our story was as follows:
The Gift of Love
On a cold winter’s night in 1951 there was a knock at the door of Bishop Thomas S. Monson. A German man from Ogden, Utah, said, “Are you Bishop Monson?”
“He began to weep and said, ‘My brother and his wife and family are coming here from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with us to see the apartment we have rented for them?”‘ recalled President Monson in a 1980 general conference address. “On the way to the apartment, he told me … through the holocaust of World War II, his brother had been faithful to the Church, serving as a branch president before the war took him to the Russian front.”
Bishop Monson looked at the apartment. It was cold and dreary. The paint was peeling, the wallpaper soiled, the lighting and floor covering inadequate, the cupboards empty.
The man replied, “It isn’t much, but it’s better than they have in Germany.” With that, he gave the key to Bishop Monson and told him the family would arrive in three weeks, just two days before Christmas.
The next morning at a ward welfare committee meeting, Bishop Monson spoke of the details of the uninviting apartment. After a moment of silence members of the ward welfare committee spoke up. A man in the electrical business pledged to fix the lighting. Another offered to paint. A third determined to have donated carpet installed in the apartment, and yet another to get donated appliances. The women in the ward would see that the cupboards were filled with food.
“The next three weeks are ever to be remembered. It seemed that the entire ward joined in the project.”
When the family arrived, they were welcomed by a beautiful apartment with fresh paint, new carpet, adequate lighting, donated furniture and appliances and kitchen cupboards filled with food. A Christmas tree stood in the dining room with gifts beneath it. We spontaneously began singing, “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm: all is bright.” We sang in English; they sang in German. At the conclusion of the hymn, Hans Guertler threw his arms around my neck, buried his head in my shoulder and repeated the words, ‘Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”‘
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I was almost finished reading our story when the doorbell rang. It was dark and late and I joked, “That had better be food at door.”
It was that and so much more. When we swung open the door, a beloved, talented family from our ward broke into the most beautiful rendition of “Silent Night.” Hadley watched the carolers, awestruck at the timing. “Mommy, do you hear what they are singing? We just read about that!”
The spirit of the season resonated so strongly as we listened to their pitch-perfect, beautiful melodies. After saying our good-byes, we ran back upstairs to finish our story:
“As we walked down the stairs that night, all of us who had participated in making Christmas come alive in the lives of this German family, we reflected upon the words of the Master:
Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Matthew 25:40.
How thankful I am for dear friends who served as a reminder of this that night.
Merry Christmas!
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 