Day 18 - The 25 Days of Christmas

The Last Bus

I remember the Christmas I decided not to go home.  I was twenty-one and living in Wichita, Kansas, far from my parents and the farm where I had grown up.  I had only Christmas Day off from my job.  I had been promised to office manager just a month before.  Determined to make good, I had worked to the point of exhaustion.

I’d welcome a day to myself.  I’d attend a Christmas morning service, relax in the afternoon.  If I went home I’d have to ride a Greyhound bus all night.  I’d arrive in Shamrock, Texas, a small town nearest to the farm, at 6:00 a.m., and then in order to return to work the day after Christmas, I’d have to reverse the ride that night.

Not one to do things on the spur of the moment.  I had sent Mama’s and Dad’s gifts well ahead of time along with a letter saying how much I loved them and how much I missed them.

At the time, I could contact my parents only by mail.  There was not telephone service to the farm, and Western Union didn’t deliver messages to rural areas.

Having made the decision not to go home, I dug into my work and tried to forget that I wouldn’t even be able to call my parents on Christmas Day.

At 5:30 on Christmas Eve, I wished my boss and co-workers a Merry Christmas and left the annual office party early.

On the way home I had to pass the Greyhound bus terminal.  As I neared it, my steps slowed.  When I saw the bus with “Oklahoma City” across the front, homesickness clutched my heart.  I leaned against the building.  That’s the last bus out to get me home by tomorrow morning, I thought.

Woefully, I watched the passengers board the bus.  The driver, taking tickets at the door, was one that I had ridden with several times before.  When the last person got on, he looked my way.

“Hey, Sunshine, are you going or not?”  He teased as he motioned and smiled.

My heart leaped.  “I’m going.”  I said quickly.  “Wait until I get a ticket.”

Breathless and tingling with happiness at the prospect of home, I settled into the only available seat.  A short time later I wondered whatever had possessed me to make that snap decision.  I hadn’t even a change of clothing.  And worse, since Mama and Daddy didn’t know I was coming, how would I get the fifteen miles from Shamrock to the farm?  I ‘d have to hitch-hike, but who would be driving down the country road at six o’clock on Christmas morning?

In the dim, early morning light, the bus pulled in the Shamrock station.  About now, I thought, Mama and Daddy are in the kitchen.  Mama has lit the gas cook stove and left the oven door open to help warm the room.  They having a cup of coffee before Daddy goes to the barn to milk the cows.  While he’s gone, Mama will cook sausage, eggs, and hot biscuits with butter and syrup.  It’s Daddy’s favorite breakfast.

As I stepped off the bus, a woman threw her arms around me, and I was in Mama’s arms.  “How did you know to meet the bus?”  I asked as I wiped the tears from eyes.  “I wrote you I wasn’t coming home.”

“The truth is,” Mama admitted, “we both had strong feelings that you’d be on this bus.  After all, it is the last bus before Christmas.”

Then I told them about my irresistible and last minute urge to hop onto the bus.  Had we unknowingly sent each other mental dispatches?

“No,” Mama said thoughtfully, “I don’t think so; I believe God just put it on our hearts.  It’s one of His Christmas miracles.  Let’s go home.”

Of all my memories of Christmases spent with Mama and Daddy, the year that I was impelled to take the-last-bus-before-Christmas home is my favorite one.

By Doris Crandall

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     The Child who was born on the first Christmas grew up to be a Man.  Jesus.  He healed many people, taught us many important things.  But the message that has left the most lasting impression and given the most hope and comfort is this: that we do have a home to go to, and there will be an ultimate homecoming.  A place where we will indeed to reunited with those we love.  A place where every day will be Christmas, with everybody there together.  At home.

                                By Marjorie Holmes

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Day 17 - 25 Days of Christmas

In the movie “White Christmas” there is a scene that Bing Crosby sings a song about “Counting your blessings”.   I found a story about a song similar to this called “Count your blessings”

A FATHER INSPIRES HIS SON

    

The elder Johnson Oatman had a rich, powerful voice.  To the people of the town of Lumberton, New Jersey, their local merchant was the best singer in the state.  That’s why Johnson Oatman, Jr., always sat next to his father in church.  That’s why, as his father, He loved church music, and he loved to hear his father sing.  Perhaps that’s why Johnson Oatman, Jr., grew into manhood with a fervent desire to contribute something to the faith of this father.

     As a junior member in the firm of Johnson Oatman & Son, young Oatman found little outlet for his religious ambitions.  So he studied for the ministry and was ordained.  But the limits of one Methodist church narrowed his horizon.  He went from one pulpit to another as a “local preacher.”  Still he was not content.

     Johnson Oatman was thirty-six years old when he found this talent.  If he could not sing like his father, he could write songs for others to sing.  He had found a medium with no limits.  He could reach millions through his sermons in song.

     It was in 1892 that Oatman took up his pen.  In three years the world was singing hundreds of his songs, and among them was the favorite, “There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus, no not one, no not one…” In 1898 presses rolled off a number that is found in hymnals around the world.

                   I’m pressing on the upward way,

                   New heights I’m gaining ev’ry day;

                   Still praying as I onward bound,

                   “Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”

     It was in 1897 that Johnson Oatman wrote what has been regarded as his most popular gospel song.  Composer E. O. Excell, of Stark County, Ohio, set “Count Your Blessings” to music.  Of this popular gospel song evangelist Gypsy Smith once said, “Men sing it, boys whistle it, and women rock their babies to sleep to the tune.”

     Johnson Oatman wrote an average of two hundred gospel songs a year for more than a quarter of a century.  His total output passed the five thousand mark.  And when publishers insisted, for business reasons, that he set a price on this work, Oatman stipulated his terms.  He would accept one dollar per song.

     Johnson Oatman was never a great singer.  He was never a great preacher insofar as pulpit messages are concerned.  But he found his talent, and he made his contribution to the faith of his father.  For through his sermons in song he has preached to millions that he could never have reached from the pulpit.  He died at Mount Pleasant, New Jersey, in 1926.  His messages still reach multitudes through such gospel songs as this one, which he wrote in 1897.

                   When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,

                      When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,

                   Count your many blessings, name them one by one,

                      And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

          Refrain:

                   Count your blessings,

                      Name them one by one:

                   Count your blessings,

                      See what God hath done;

                   Count your blessings,

                      Name them one by one;

                   Count your blessings,

                      See what God hath done.

Tennessee Ham

1 Ham

1 cup dark molasses

Cloves

1 1/2 cups brown sugar

Cracker crumbs

Fruit preserves

Completely cover the ham in cold water and soak overnight.  Take out and remove any hard surface.  Put in suitably sized pot with fresh water, skin side down; add molasses.  Cook slowly (225 degrees (F)), allowing 25 minutes to the pound.  Allow to cool in the liquid.

  

Remove skin carefully.  Score ham; stick a clove in each square.  Sprinkle with paste made of brown sugar, meal or cracker crumbs, and sufficient liquid to make the paste.

Bake slowly in moderate oven (320 degrees (F)) for one (1) hour, until evenly browned.  Decorate platter with thin slices cut from the roasted ham, rolled into cornucopias and filled with fruit preserves.