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T H E K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
MAt our house, we try to give to the Lord Jesus the one thing we think He wants most— our love.”
Seven Babies—arid Christmas By DORIS COFFIN ALDRICH
I T REALLY begins on Mommie’s birthday, for it is on that day that we decorate the tree, a week before Christmas. Four pairs of eager hands reach into the box labeled “Christ mas Tree Ornaments,” and four pairs of shining eyes decide just where to hang the treasures. Three other pairs of hahds are too tiny for these tasks. Dr. and Mrs: Willard C. Aldrich not only have a large family, but also the reputation of hav ing a truly gracious Christian home. Dr. Aid- rich is President of the Multnomah School of the Bible, Portlaiid, Ore., and his versatile wife, who still finds time for Bible teaching and for writing, was the class speaker for the women in the graduating Class of 1930 at the Bible Institute of Los Angeles. Shp is the writer of the vMixing Bowl** in the 15borsfep' Evangel of which her husband is the editor.'
The lower branches -are reserved for the Children. Mommie stands; on a chair and trims the top of the tree. Jane, the oldest, feels the resp'jbnSi- bilify for proper distribution of scarlet and blue balls, silver rain, and frosty icicles. Jon, the next in line, finds his interest in the lights. The small size and the bright colors are entranc ing. Joe and Becky take pleasure in hanging the most on the least possible area. “What will the twins think, Mom mie, when they' see the tree?” one may ask, and the ethers will pause to consider. The twins were .too young last Christmas to have remembered. . “ And what will Annette do?”
“Oh, Annette won’t remember. She wasn’t even borned last Christmas,” Jon may remind them. “ She will like the lights.” Then, as a serious after thought: “Does Annette know about the Lord Jesus’ birthday, Mommie?” “Not yet, son, but she will some day. She’ll learn about it the way you did.” Christ’s birthday—that is what Christmas really is. Sometimes in the rush of things the fact has been ob scured. To be forgotten on one’s birth day’ is to feel a special kind of pain. To awaken with a feeling of anticipa tion, to go through the day and find that nothing happens-—that no one
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