The Light is Gathering 3: Unto Earth A Child is Born, He Shall Reign Forevermore
Dear reader, will you take this Son? Because you see...
The Light of the world…
…given for us.
Christ is the humility of God embodied in human nature; the Eternal Love humbling itself, clothing itself in the garb of meekness and gentleness, to win and serve and save us.
And for thanks we nailed Him to the cross, and in His agony he looked down at us - denying Him, abandoning Him, and betraying Him - and in the greatest act of love in history, He said, ‘Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they are doing.’
He shed tears for those that shed His blood. Jesus was God and man in one person, tortured to utmost agony, and crying for us while dying for us, so that, far beyond the eve of Adam’s sin, God and man might reconcile and unite together again.
It is for these reasons that no one else holds or has held the place in the heart of the world which Jesus holds. While other gods may have been as devoutly worshiped, no other man has been so devoutly loved.
—Bridged Quotes from Various Authors
God gave Jesus eternally to us and this gift is the greatest Christmas gift ever given. But Christ is ours to take or leave, as we are all innkeepers who get to choose whether there is room enough for Jesus in our hearts. So the question is, will you take the Son?
Who Will Take the Son?
By Unknown [Modified by the Perimeter]
A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had nearly everything in their gallery, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often spend hours together admiring and discussing the stunning compositions before them.
One day the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while saving another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only child.
About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood there with a large gleaming package in his hands. He said, “Sir, you don’t know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in his heart. In his shock his death was painless.
He often spoke about you and your shared love of art.” The young man brought forward his hands. “I know it isn’t much. I’m not a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this.”
The father unwrapped the parcel. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. The father stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his lost future on the canvas. The father was so drawn to his son’s eyes that his own eyes welled with tears. His throat seized. He thanked the young man as best he could and, nearly choking, offered to pay him for the priceless image. “Oh, no, sir. I could never repay what your son did for me. It is a gift.”
The father hung the portrait over his mantle. From then on whenever visitors came to call, he first took them to see the painting of his son before he presented any of the other great works they had collected together. ...And yet, still heartbroken, with only his son’s portrait to console - as well as torture by his absence - overtime the gentlemen’s body failed him as his heart was steadily cut-up from the sum total of gloom, grief is capable of rending.
There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the fruit of the greatest artists and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection. On the platform sat the painting of the man’s son. The auctioneer pounded the gavel.
“We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?” There was silence. Then a voice near the back of the room shouted, “We want to see the famous paintings. Skip that one.” But the auctioneer persisted. “Will someone bid for this painting? Who will start the bidding? $100. $200?”
Another voice shouted angrily. “We didn’t come to see this armature portrait! We came to see the Van Goughs, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids.” But still the auctioneer continued. “The son! Who will take the son?”
Finally, a voice came from the back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son, of whom both he was fond. “I’ll give $10 for the painting.” Being a poor man, it was all he could afford. “We have $10, who will bid $20?”
“Give it to him for $10! Let’s see the masters.” But the auctioneer continued. “$10 is the bid, won’t someone bid $20?” The crowd was becoming angry. They didn’t want the image of the son. They wanted the more “worthy” investments for their collections. The auctioneer pounded the gavel. “Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!”
A man sitting on the second row shouted, “Now let’s get on with the collection!” But the auctioneer laid down his gavel. “I’m sorry, the auction is over.”
“What about the paintings?”
“All apologies. When I was called to conduct the auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the art collection. That man in the back who took the son gets everything.”
God gave his son over 2000 years ago to die on a cruel cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is, “The Son, the Son, who will take the Son?” Because, you see, whoever takes the Son, gets everything...
By taking the Son,
You May See an Angel
By Pat Leonard [Modified by the Perimeter]
John was almost five years old that Christmas. Wasn’t it only natural that he was filled with awe and curiosity on that special night?
He did not have an important part in the school Christmas pageant, as he was just one of many in the kindergarten class. While the children gathered at school for the program, the teachers were busy with preparations and the costumes of those chosen to be Mary and Joseph and the angels, shepherds, and Wisemen. No one noticed a little boy go out the door into the hall.
John sensed he was not supposed to leave and venture into the empty school alone, but he had heard the baby! And there was to be a baby—he knew that.
By the sound, he also knew that down the dim-lit hall was the way he had to go, but he wondered why God didn’t send the star, and then he remembered: The star wasn’t for him. It was really for the shepherds and the Wisemen, and he wasn’t anybody important like that. He’d have to be very brave and go alone to find the baby. He turned the corner cautiously.
At the far end of the hall, he saw a light from a doorway. Then he heard the cry more clearly. He knew where to go.
Meanwhile inside the door, Mary Meadowcroft knelt beside a stuffed chair her husband Joe, a teacher, had brought to school for his sixth-grade reading corner. On it, she put their child Jeffrey down to rest.
He was normally a contented and easy going baby. Had she known he would cry like this, she would have remained at home with him, rather than venturing with her husband to see the pageant.
She thought that the sudden presence of so many excited children must have frightened Jeffrey, for be began crying almost immediately upon arrival, and would not be stilled. The show would not be long, so Mary decided to wait here in Joe’s classroom with their child, so his tears could not disturb anyone.
Suddenly, she was startled to hear a little voice questioning, “Ar.. Are you Mary?”
“Why, yes, I am,” she answered with amazement. “Do I know you?”
“I came to see your Baby,” said John. “I didn’t know He ever cried like that,” he added softly.
“Jeffrey is just frightened to be in a strange place.”
“Hi,” John said softly as he knelt down beside the baby. “I’m John. I’m not a wiseman or anything, but they’re busy and couldn’t come.”
The baby stopped crying to turn and look at John. Mary remained perfectly still, her mouth drawn into an astonished “Oh!”
“I forgot to bring something, little Jeffrey Jesus.”
The baby was smiling now. John put out a tentative finger to touch him and said in whispered adoration, “I really do love you, Jeffrey Jesus.”
Suddenly John smiled. “I know what I can give you! I’ll sing you a song that we’ve been practicing! I know all the words!”
By now John’s parents had come searching for him. They were stopped in the doorway by the sight of Mary and the baby listening to John’s gift of song.
𝅘𝅥𝅮 Bless all the dear children ● In your tender care ● And take us to heaven ● To live with you there. 𝅘𝅥𝅮
The baby beamed at the singing child while the three adults, their hearts full of wonder, saw a glimpse of an angel that night.
By taking the Son, you may learn that good deeds are their own rewards:
A Boy Learns a Lesson
By Thomas S. Monson [Modified by the Perimeter]
As Christmas approached my tenth year, I longed for an electric train. The times were those of economic depression, yet Mother and Dad worked hard and purchased for me a lovely mechanical set.
Christmas morning bright and early, I thrilled when noticing my new railroad fleet. The next few hours were devoted to operating the transformer and conducting its activities as the engine transported goods to needful places forward and backward and all around the track.
Mother had also purchased a wind-up train for Widow Hansen’s boy, Mark, who lived down on Gale Street. Inspecting it, I noted a tanker car which I much admired—my railway clients, after-all, had much need for fuel. I put up such a fuss that my mother succumbed to my pleadings and surrounded it. With excitement, I attached it to my train and delivered a full tank of natural gas to a grateful dispensary. “Their customers will be warm this Christmas night”, I mused triumphantly.
Later, Mother and I took the remaining cars and engine down to Mark Hansen. The young boy was a year or two older than I. He had never anticipated such a gift. He was thrilled beyond words. He wound the key in his lock, it not being electric nor expensive like mine, and was overjoyed as the engine and three cars, plus a caboose, went around the track.
I felt a horrible sense of guilt as I returned home. The tanker car no longer appealed to me. Suddenly, I took it in my hand, plus an additional car of my own, and ran all the way down to Gale Street and proudly announced to Mark, “We forgot to bring two cars which belong to your train.”
I don’t know when a deed had made me feel any better than that experience as a ten-year old boy, I have carried it with me, as if a warm glowing memory on a dark freezing night, ever since.
By taking the Son, you may even become like an angel:
The Christmas Scout
By Samuel D. Boga [Modified by the Perimeter]
In spite of the fun and laughter, young Frank Wilson was in poor spirits.
It was true that he had received all the presents he wanted along with some special surprises. And of course, he enjoyed these traditional Christmas Eve reunions of relatives—this year at Aunt Susan’s—for the purpose of exchanging love and good wishes.
But Frank was almost devestated because this was to be his first Christmas without his brother, Steve, who earlier in the year had been the tragic victim of a reckless driver. Frank deeply missed his brother and the close companionship they had together.
Suffocating at this memory, he said good-bye to his relatives and explained to his parents that he was leaving a little early to see a friend. Since it was cold outside, Frank put on his new plaid jacket. It was his favorite gift. The other presents he placed on his new sled.
Then Frank, seeking that missing companionship of his brother, headed for the Flats, hoping to find the patrol leader of his Boy Scout troop. This was the section of town where most of the poor lived, and his patrol leader did odd jobs to help support his family. To Frank’s disappointment, his friend was not at home, but running errands.
As Frank hiked down the street, he caught glimpses of trees and decorations in many homes. And although not meaning to pry, out of the corner of his eye he detected a shabby room with a couple of small limp worn and dirty stockings hanging over an empty fireplace. A woman was seated near them weeping. The stockings reminded him of the way he and his brother had always hung theirs side by side, but theirs were big, and new, and clean, and the next morning would be bursting with candy and glimmering prizes. Unlike these which would surely be no different, even they sat there all the way through next Christmas and out the other side. Then it hit him that he had not done his “good turn” for the day.
He knocked on the door.
“Y..yes?” the sad shaky voice of the woman inquired.
“May I come in?”
“You are very welcome,” she sighed, “but I have not food or gifts for you. I have nothing for my own children.”
“That’s not why I am here,” Frank, surprising himself, announces with all the authority of a scout leader. “You are to choose whatever presents you need for your children from this sled.”
“Why, God bless you!” the amazed woman answered hesitantly but deeply grateful.
She gingerly selected some candies, a game, the toy airplane, and a puzzle. When she slowly reached for the new Scout flashlight, Frank almost cried out but he regained his composure in a flash. Finally, the stockings were full.
“Won’t you tell me your name?” she almost pleaded as Frank was leaving.
“Just call me the Christmas Scout,” he replied.
That night Frank saw that his sorrow was not the only sorrow in the world and before he left the Flats, he had given away the remainder of his toys. The new plaid jacket had gone to a shivering boy.
He trudged homeward, cold and uneasy - all that mystifying scout authority fleeing him. Having given his presents away Frank could think of no reasonable explanation to offer his parents. He wondered how he could make them understand.
“Where are your presents, son?” asked his father as he entered the house.
“I gave them away.”
“But I thought you were happy with your gifts.”
“I was, very happy,” the boy answered lamely.
“But, Frank, how could you be so impulsive?” his mother asked.
His father was firm. “You made your choice, Frank. We cannot afford any more presents.”
His brother gone, his family disappointed in him, Frank suddenly felt dreadfully alone. He had not expected a reward for his generosity for, in the wisdom of young grief, he knew that a good deed always should be its own reward. It would be tarnished otherwise. So he did not want his gifts back. Frank thought of his brother and sobbed himself to sleep.
The next morning he came downstairs to find his parents listening to Christmas music on the radio. Then the announcer spoke:
“Merry Christmas, everybody! The sweetest Christmas story we have this morning comes from the Flats. A crippled boy down there has a new sled to get around in this morning. Another youngster has a new plaid jacket. And several families report that their children were made happy last night by gifts from a teenage boy who simply referred to himself as the Christmas Scout. No one could identify him, but the children of the Flats claim that the Christmas Scout was a personal representative of old Santa Claus himself.”
Frank felt his father’s arms go around his shoulders, and saw his mother smiling through her tears. “Why didn’t you tell us? We are so proud of you, son.”
The carols came over the air again filling the room with music.
𝅘𝅥𝅮 And praises sing to God the King, and peace to men on Earth. 𝅘𝅥𝅮
By taking the Son, the Master will take you by the hand:
The Touch of the Master’s Hand [Modified by the Perimeter]
‘Twas battered and scarred ● And the auctioneer thought it ● Hardly worth the while ● Of any who bought it
But he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bid, good people”, he cried ● “Who starts the bidding for me?” ● “One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?” ● “Two dollars, who makes it three?” ● “Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going, going for three,”
No paddle stirred a single degree
From the back of the house an old bearded man came ● And he bowed and he picked up the bow ● Then wiping the dust from the old violin ● And tuning it up, just so ● He played a melody so pure and sweet ● As pure as the driven snow
With serene angelic tempo
When the symphony cleared, the auctioneer asked ● With a voice that was reverent and low ● “What now am I bid for this old violin?” ● As he aired it aloft with its bow.
Hushed-tones began their flow
“One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?” ● “Two thousand, Who makes it three?” ● “Three thousand once, three thousand twice ● Going and gone”, said he!
Now the master returned to his seat
The audience cheered ● But some of them cried ● “We just cannot understand why! ● What changed its’ worth, so drastically? ● Swiftly, came the reply:
“The Touch of the Master’s Hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune ● All battered and bruised and boxed-in ● Is auctioned cheap in a thoughtless room ● Much like that old violin
A mess of dejection, a plunge of despair ● A lament, then he travels on ● He is going once, he is going twice ● He is going and almost gone
But then the Master comes along
And the foolish crowd never can quite get ● The worth of a soul and the change that is set
By the Touch of the Master’s Hand
By the Love of Our Master’s Hand
—By Myra Brooks, 1921 [Modified]
The Friendly Beasts ● Twelfth-Century Carol
Jesus our brother, strong and good ● Was humbly born in a stable rude ● And the friendly beasts around Him stood ● Jesus our brother, strong and good.
“I,” said the donkey shaggy and brown ● “I carried His mother up hill and down ● I carried her safely to Bethlehem town● I,” said the donkey, shaggy and brown.
“I,” said the cow all white and red ● “I gave Him my manger for His bed ● I gave Him my hay to pillow His head ● I,” said the cow all white and red.
“I,” said the sheep with curly horn ● “I gave Him my wool for His blanket warm ● He wore my coat on Christmas morn ● I,” said the sheep with curly horn.
“I,” said the dove, from the rafters high ● “Cooed Him to sleep, my mate and I ● We cooed Him to sleep, my mate and I ● I,” said the dove, from the rafters high.
And every beast, by some good spell ● In the stable dark was glad to tell ● Of the gift he gave Immanuel ● The gift he gave Immanuel.
The Man & the Birds
The Story Behind the Twelve Days of Christmas … Carol?
By Vickey Pahnke
The story goes that from 1558 until 1829 people in England were not allowed to practice their faith openly. During this era, the song ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ was written as a subtle way of celebrating Christ’s birth in public without risk of prosecution. It is alleged that the song’s lyrics had a hidden meaning known only to members of the church, with each element of the Twelve Days offering a coded meaning for a religious reality:
I hope you took the Son, here’s how to keep Him:
Keeping Christmas
By Henry Van Dyke
There is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.
Are you willing…
to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you;
to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world;
to see that other men and women are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces into their hearts, hungry for joy;
to own up to the fact that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life;
to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness.
Are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.
Are you willing…
to stoop down and consider the needs and desires of little children;
to remember the weakness and loneliness of people growing old;
to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough;
to bear in your mind the things that other people have to bear in their hearts;
to try to understand what those who live in the same home with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you;
to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you;
to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open—
Are you willing to do these things, even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.
Are you willing…
to believe that love is the strongest force in the universe—
stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death—
and that the blessed life which began in a lowly manger in Bethlehem, twenty hundred years ago, is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love?
Then you can keep Christmas.
And if you can keep it for a day, why not always?
But you can never keep it alone.
Sources for much of the above and many, many more Christmas stories: https://christmasstories.org
Stories that were regrettably too long to include but that you might find are worth every minute:
https://christmasstories.org/christmas-day-in-the-morning
https://christmasstories.org/the-other-wise-man
https://christmasstories.org/mattie-chitzmats
In Closing: Did you take the Son? If so:
In Christ
Outside of Christ, I am only a sinner, but in Christ, I am saved. Outside of Christ, I am empty; in Christ, I am full. Outside of Christ, I am weak; in Christ, I am strong. Outside of Christ, I cannot; in Christ, I am more than able. Outside of Christ, I have been defeated; in Christ, I am already victorious. How meaningful are the words, “in Christ.” —Watchman Nee
As you walk through the valley of the unknown, you will find the footprints of Jesus both in front of you and beside you.
—Charles Stanley
Christ is not a reservoir but a spring. His life is continual, active and ever passing on with an outflow as necessary as its inflow. If we do not perpetually draw the fresh supply from the living Fountain, we shall either grow stagnant or empty, It is, therefore, not so much a perpetual fullness as a perpetual filling.
—A. B. Simpson
“Christ is a substitute for everything, but nothing is a substitute for Christ.”
―Harry A. Ironside
Because, you see, whoever takes the Son…
…gets everything.
Merry Christmas from the Perimeter to your homes dear readers. We hope and pray you got everything.
THANK YOU, this is one of the finest Chritmas posts I have read/heard so far. God Bless us all and Merry Christmas World. Awaken!!
"We Spirits of Christmas do not live only one day of our year. We live the whole three-hundred and sixty-five,"
- Ghost of Christmas Present, 1951 film Scrooge (aka A Christmas Carol)