night. It was so simple — so pure — so deep, much like the. spirit which prevailed on that first Christmas many years ago in Bethlehem. I don’t know why I should feel this way, but I feel your tear is trying to show me something that I have missed in Christmas. Perhaps at home we do emphasize the Christmas tree, the buying of gifts, decorated lawns and Santa Claus at the expense of losing the true mean ing of the day. Sleigh bells, mistletoe, “ Silent Night” and the Baby Jesus have become a conglomeration of fiction and truth. Perhaps your tear is calling us to be more sober and to withdraw from this world’s abuse of Christmas and simply to honor Him whose birthday it is. As the world makes merchandise of the beautiful sacred story, perhaps it would be wiser, especially in times like these, to show a little more genuine love and respect for honest tradition in memory of Him who is the true Author of peace. As you tried to blink away this precious gift in your eyes, you taught me that there are still lasting values in Christmas. Yes, there is peace which is genuine, a love that conquers all, a radiant hope which insures the future. It is a mystery that these things should be expressed in tears. Even so, Rinda, as you lie sleeping peacefully in your bed, there are men and nations who hate this Christ and seek to destroy all that these tears mean and promise for the fuutre. But let me assure you, Rinda, they ’shall never win, they shall never con quer — not even the faith of a little girl. By those you share the hurt in God’s heart for His world — and in the end God’s plan will win. Yes, in our family circle to-night we caught the spirit of Christmas. In your tear was reflected more beauty, more color, more honest admiration than all the bright lights and tinsel of the world. Here is tra dition which is right. It is always proper to withdraw from this world’s gaiety and in the quietness of worship kneel at the manger of Jesus. It is always fitting to shed honest tears, for this is sharing with God. In fact, Rinda, there are many who would like to shed tears once again and be moved by simple adoration and love — but they cannot. It is not that they don’t love Him or have room in their hearts — but the season’s tra ditions no longer leave them time for the adoration of the Saviour. I am impelled to go to your bedside again. I hope the tear is still there. It is a precious gift and you have laid it so beautifully at the feet of God to-night. I have peace in my heart now — for I know that you also will have precious memories of Christmas — memories I nev er knew. JLovuujbf, 2 W.
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To-night is Christmas eve. Now that you and the oth er children are in bed, I feel a little hurt in my heart — so I must write some of these things down lest they slip by unheeded. As I sit at my desk, all is quiet except for the beating of the temple gong and the friendly hissing of the old pressure lamp. A few minutes ago I went to your room, pulled back the mosquito net and looked into your face. You were asleep and your head was peacefully cushioned in a pillow of golden curls, but my flashlight caught a little reflection in your closed eyes — and I knew that your tears had not yet dried. They were Christmas tears — your gift to God in memory of the birth of His Son. Ours was a simple Christmas. There were no Christ mas tree, no presents, no pretty lights or bright tinsel, no decorated lawns. You have never known the glitter and merriment of a big department store at Christmas time. Living on the mission field, we just don’t have these things. With a few paper cut-outs, you and Mother made a manger scene. Then this evening, after you children had put on your pajamas, we gathered in the front room. With candles burning, we rehearsed the Christmas story. You have always thrilled at this story: the shepherds, the wise men bearing precious gifts, the deep understanding and love of Mary, and the manger which cradled God’s gift to man. After the story, we sang many Christmas carols and then each one offered a prayer and trotted off to bed. You, Rinda, lingered behind for a few moments, and it was then that it seemed as if the burdens of the whole world fell upon your young shoulders. Trying to blink away the tears, you looked first at me and then at the manger scene, and asked, “Daddy, why doesn’t the world love Jesus?” With this you kissed me, and dashed off to bed. While living on the mission field, I have often won dered: “ Is it fair to deprive your children of the many wonderful things which happen in America at Christ mas time?” As I look back to my childhood, there are so many things that I cherish: the cold wintry nights, the magic of a pretty tree, the mystery of oddly-shaped gifts, all tied in colorful ribbons, and the’ air filled with enchanting Christmas music. The spirit of good will prevailed as people greeted each other with a hearty “Merry Christmas!” There was the jolly old Santa Claus down at the department store. There was the arrival of relatives and friends, all mixed with the aroma of roasting chicken, evergreen decorations and falling snow. These are precious memories. You have never known these, Rinda, and I wonder if someday you will regret it. I hope not. In fact, I would like every 'Christmas to be just like the one to
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