CHRISTMAS PRESENCE

Copyright © 2013 Candace F. Abbott

ISBN 978-1493521005 soft cover

ISBN 978-1-886068-73-5

Christian Life • Religious and Inspirational

Personal Growth • Faith • Self-Help

Published by Fruitbearer Publishing, LLC

P. O. Box 777, Georgetown, DE 19947

302.856.6649 • FAX 302.856.7742

www.fruitbearer.com • info@fruitbearer.com

Cover Illustration and Graphic Design by Candy Abbott

Editing and Proofreading by Wilma Caraway

Unless otherwise noted, Scripture is taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked “ESV” are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Copyright © 2000; 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture taken from The King James Version of the Holy Bible (KJV), public domain.

Scripture quotations marked “NCV” are taken from the New Century Version. Copyright © 1987, 1988, 1991 by Word Publishing, a division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture taken from The New King James Version (NKJV), Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982, by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked “TLB” or “The Living Bible” are taken from The Living Bible. Copyright ©1971 by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, IL. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher or author, except as provided by USA copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated

To readers

who know how to sense Christ’s presence

in the beauty, delights, and depths

of all that is Christmas.

Introduction

Jesus is always with us, whether we’re singing sacred Christmas carols to honor His birth or enjoying festivities with our children like visiting Santa. We may not see the Lord with our physical eyes, but if we are sensitive to the Holy Spirit, we can sense His presence right there in the room with us, maybe even looking over our shoulder—certainly hearing every word we say and seeing everything we do.

The little girl on the cover, who is fairly gasping for breath as she spiels off her wish list to Santa, is unaware of Jesus’ presence. But He cares for everything that concerns her and is, even now, monitoring every aspect of her life. How do I know? Because that little girl is me. The watercolor painting is a self-portrait based on a black-and-white department store photo from 1954.

With the help of Delmarva Christian Writers’ Fellowship, I have compiled this family-friendly Christmas book, which contains a variety of stories, devotionals, poems, puzzles, and tidbits we trust will enhance your Christmas experience this year and for years to come.

Established in 1993, Delmarva Christian Writers’ Fellowship (DCWF) meets the third Saturday of every month in Tunnell Hall at the Georgetown Presbyterian Church, 203 North Bedford Street, Georgetown, Delaware, from 9 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. Meeting attendance runs from eight to twenty-eight. Many are new writers who are mentored by those who have been published. It is an informal gathering for critiquing and encouragement with resources to build up the Christian who writes. There is no membership fee, no formal agenda, and no pressure, but we do hold one another accountable to see progress in our writing. Meetings typically include a devotional, shared information, a teaching, manuscript critiques, and prayer. Friendships are fostered over lunch and between meetings. On occasion, we host day-long writing seminars or retreats and encourage participation in other local/regional/national conferences.

This compilation of Christmas stories, devotionals, poems, and tidbits is our third publication. The first, CHRIST IS NEAR: Advent Meditations by Delmarva Christian Writers’ Fellowship, was initially published in 2002 to give beginning writers an opportunity to see their work in print. Eight years later, it was completely revised, and the second edition was released in 2011. In 2012, Christmas, a 142-page anthology was released, and we extended the opportunity for submission of manuscripts to friends of our writers’ fellowship.

Since the inception of DCWF, many of our members have progressed in their writing, and two new groups have been formed: Vine & Vessels Christian Writers Fellowship (which meets the fourth Saturday of the month and hosts an annual conference), and Kingdom Writers Fellowship (which meets the third Tuesday evening of each month). Some of our members have relocated or passed away, and new members have joined our fellowship. The collection you hold in your hand is a small representation of the many writers who have been encouraged and who have encouraged others in their quest to write with excellence and delight, to the glory of God.

We hope you enjoy this family-friendly Christmas book. Who knows? Maybe it will spark a desire in you to write!

For more information, visit www.DelmarvaWriters.com, or call Candy Abbott, director, at 302.856.6649.

Table of Contents

Christmas Presence

Our Christmas Gift

Ruth Thomas

In a humble stable small

was born the Son of Man.

Angels heralded him to earth

to bring salvation’s plan.

Two thousand years have come and gone

since that manger scene.

It’s been replaced within our world

with lights of red and green.

Gifts and trees and Santa Claus

is what our children know.

They seldom hear of God’s great gift

so many years ago.

A greater gift was never known,

nor love so strong and true,

Than that displayed by Jesus Christ

who died for me and you.

The world may have its Santa Claus,

its glitter and its glow.

But they have missed the greatest gift—

The Savior that we know.

Ivy’s Cookies

Candy Abbott

The clank of the metal door and the echo of their footsteps rang in the ears of Ivy and Joanne as they walked down the dingy corridor behind the prison guard toward the “big room.” The aroma of Ivy’s homemade chocolate chip cookies wasn’t enough to override the stench of ammonia from the recently mopped floor or the bitterness and anger that hung in the air. Women’s Correctional Institute was not the kind of place where seventeen-year-olds go for an outing, but Ivy had a mission.

She was a new believer, and the Scripture, “When have you visited me in prison?” grabbed her heart. She didn’t know what she was getting into, but she had to try. Several weeks ago, with trembling fingers, she had dialed the number for an appointment at the prison. Warden Baylor was receptive to Ivy’s desire to visit and referred her to Joanne, another teen who had expressed interest.

“How do we do this?” Ivy asked.

“Who knows? Maybe homemade cookies would break the ice,” Joanne suggested.

So they baked their cookies and here they were, bearing gifts to strangers.

“I put almonds in these,” Ivy rambled nervously as they moved along. “The dough was gummier than usual …”

“Don’t chatter,” the guard snapped. “It gets the prisoners riled.”

The harsh words made Ivy jump and her heart pound. She walked the rest of the distance in silence.

“Okay. Here we are,” the guard grunted, keys rattling. “You go in. I’ll lock the door behind you. Be careful what you say. They have a way of using your words against you. You have fifteen minutes. Holler if you have any trouble.” Ivy noted the prisoners’ orange jumpsuits and felt overdressed. Maybe we shouldn’t have worn heels, she thought. They probably think we’re snobs.

Remembering the guard’s admonition, the girls put the cookies on the table next to plastic cups of juice without a word. Some prisoners leaned against the wall; others stood around. Watching. Studying. Thinking. Staring. Nobody talked. Ivy smiled at one of the women, and she scowled back. From then on, she avoided eye contact. After five minutes of strained silence, Joanne whispered, “Let’s move away from the table. Maybe they’ll come over.”

As they stepped back, one of the prisoners blurted out, “I’m gettin’ a cookie.” The others followed and began helping themselves. Soon they heard the rattle of keys. Time was up.

“What a relief to get outta there,” Joanne sighed as a gust of fresh air caressed their perspiring faces.

“Yeah,” Ivy agreed. “But there’s a tug inside me that we’re not done. Would you be willing to go back?”

Joanne nodded with a half-smile. “How about Thursday after school?”

Week after week they came. And week after week the prisoners ate the cookies, drank the juice, and stood around in silence. Gradually, antagonistic looks were replaced by an occasional smile. Still, Ivy couldn’t bring herself to speak—not a word.

Then one Thursday, just before Christmas, an evangelist walked in. Her step was sure, her chin was high, and she glowed with the love of God. But she meant business. “I’ve come to pray with you,” she announced. “Let’s make a circle.”

Ivy was awed by the inmates’ compliance. Only a few resisted. The others, although murmuring, inched their way toward the middle of the room and formed a lopsided circle, looking suspiciously at one another.

“Join hands,” the evangelist instructed. “It’s not gonna hurt ya, and it’ll mean more if you do.” Slowly they clasped hands, some grasping hard, others barely touching. “Now, bow your heads.” Except for the orange outfits, it could have been a church meeting.

“Okay. We’re gonna pray,” she continued, “and prayer is just like talking, only to God. I want to hear you tell the Lord one thing you’re thankful for. Just speak it out. Don’t hold back.”

Ivy’s palms were sweaty. I can’t pray out loud, Lord. I can’t even talk to these women. Guess I should set an example, but they probably don’t even like me—think I’m better than them ‘cause of my clothes.

The words of an inmate jolted her from her thoughts.

“I’m thankful, God, for Miss Ivy bringing us cookies every week.”

Another voice compounded the shock, “God, thanks for bringing a black lady to see us, not just Quakers and Presbyterians.”

Ivy’s eyes brimmed with tears as she heard, “Thank you, God, for these two ladies givin’ their time every week even though we can’t do nothin’ to pay ‘em back.”

One by one, every inmate in the circle thanked God for Ivy and Joanne. Then Joanne managed to utter a prayer of gratitude for the prisoners’ words. But when it came Ivy’s turn, she was too choked up to speak. Her eyes burned in humble remorse over how wrong she’d been about these women. She wished she could blow her nose, but the inmates were squeezing her hands so tightly, she resorted to loud sniffles and an occasional drip.

The following week, Ivy and Joanne returned, bright-eyed, to find the prisoners talkative.

“Why do you bring us cookies every week?” a husky voice inquired from the corner of the room. When Ivy explained, she inched a few steps closer. “Can you get me a Bible?” she asked. Others wanted to know more about the Jesus who inspires teenagers to visit prisoners.

A ministry was born from Ivy’s cookies. What started as a silent act of kindness and obedience turned into a weekly Bible study at the prison which eventually grew so big it split into several groups that continue to this day. After Joanne married and moved away, Ivy continued to minister to the inmates alone for years. Eventually, Prison Fellowship picked up the baton.

Ivy is a Grandmom now. Her radiance has increased with age, and she brightens any room she enters. But last Thursday afternoon she indulged herself in a good cry. Curled up on the couch, wrapped in the afghan her daughter had made, she wept. Deep sobs wracked her body as she remembered it had been one year since her daughter died of asthma. She ached over the loss and felt, for the first time, the full weight of her words, “The kids can live with me.” The baby was asleep in his crib and the two girls were in school when the doorbell rang.

There stood a young woman, probably 17, with a plate of home-made cookies.

“Are you Ivy Jones?” she asked.

“Yes,” she answered, dabbing her eyes with a wadded tissue.

“These are for you,” the girl said as she handed the cookies to her with a shy, sad smile, turning to leave without another word.

“Thank you,” Ivy whispered in a daze. The girl was halfway down the sidewalk when Ivy called out, “But why?”

“My grandmother gave me her Bible before she died last week, and her last words were, ‘Find Ivy Jones and take her some homemade cookies.’”

As the girl walked away, a wave of precious memories, uncertainties and younger days flooded Ivy’s soul. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she choked back a sob and headed toward the phone. It’s been a long time since I talked with Joanne.

_____________

“Ivy’s Cookies” has been previously published in:

Chicken Soup for the Prisoner’s Soul

Chicken Soup for the Christian Woman’s Soul

Stories for a Woman’s Heart

Stories for a Teen’s Heart 2

Small Acts of Grace

This Season

Michele Jones

It’s not about the tinsel

It’s not about the lights

It’s not about some reindeer

that flies the skies at night

It’s not about the Jones’

and all that “keeping up”

It’s not about the bikes or games

and all that other “stuff”

It’s about one truth

A message given to us

since the prophets of old

Restoration and redemption for our souls

A message and revelation to us of love

sent down to mankind from the Father above

It’s about the truth of our life’s plan

and the future of all man

That has been so carefully mastered

from the beginning

It’s about an unfathomable love

for all His children

An uncomprehending love

that is never ending

For God so loved the world

that He sent His only Son

To save us from our wayward selves

to restore us to the Father as one

Wise men traveled from far

Seeking this truth

guided by one brilliant star

Which shown brightly before them

and guided their way

They traveled to honor the Christ child

born of lowly estate

Gifts three did they bring to honor a king

Gold from their wealth, a mighty treasure

His gift to us we can never measure

Frankincense given to a little child

So young and innocent and meek

His Word and Spirit of Truth

Is our fragrance sweet

And the gift of myrrh

His death proclaiming

The ultimate price for our redeeming

Redemption’s child

our coming King

It’s about the help for the one in need

It’s about the hope for the orphan’s cry

and the widow’s plea

It’s about a Christ child

who is Savior and is King

With great power and might does forever reign

And who has promised

is coming again

So faith child

every day is our season

Not just one day out of the year

We must spread this gospel story

So that the truth will reach every ear

Don’t just see a tiny baby

neatly tucked and fast asleep

See a risen Savior born for you and me

See Him in all His splendor

He is our LORD and our KING!

Merry Christmas

David Michael Smith

“There’s a little girl trembling on a cold December morn,

Crying for Momma’s arms,

At an orphanage just outside a little China town,

Where the forgotten are.

But half a world away,

I hang the stockings by the fire,

And dream about the day,

When I can finally call you mine.

It’s Christmastime again but you’re not home,

Your family is here and yet you’re somewhere else alone,

So tonight I pray that God will come and hold you in His arms,

And tell you from my heart, I wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Over and over and over again the results came back … negative. Always negative. Weeks turned to months and then to years as my wife and I desperately tried to do what God intended happily married couples to do, procreate, start a family. But after too many failures to list, including unsuccessful artificial inseminations, fruitless in vitro fertilization procedures, heart wrenching miscarriages, enough ovulation kits to move the stock price, visits to doctors and specialists and half the country praying for my wife, Geri, and me, we were still childless after ten years of marriage. We were frustrated and depressed. We felt incomplete, even empty.

Holidays were particularly humbling. Our families would gather for gifts at Christmas, or on birthdays, and our nephews and nieces always commanded center stage. We missed being part of that fun and frivolity. On Christmas morning, my wife and I exchanged gifts, but we dearly missed the pitter patter of small feet excitedly running around the house with the new toys Santa had delivered the eve before.

Although we had discussed adoption on numerous occasions, particularly after being told by expert physicians we were unable to conceive, we never seemed to be on the same page with the solution. When Geri was ready, I questioned my motives. When I was ready, she was unsure of her inner feelings. We both agreed to wait until we were both on board, totally, completely, for the sake of the child. That child would need our unconditional love and devotion, and this endeavor could not be taken lightly. So we continued to lift the idea up in prayer.

And then one day, in about as anticlimactic fashion possible while driving to work, I casually asked my wife if she’d like to adopt a little girl from China and she immediately shouted, “Yes!” I was ready, in my heart, mind, and spirit. There were no reservations whatsoever. God had answered our prayers. We were going to be parents!

The process to adopt internationally was a long, tedious process, nearly fifteen months in length from the initial overview meeting to the time we traveled to China. Mountains of paperwork, consultations with counselors, social case workers and agency representatives, scheduling passport photos (twice) and background checks; it wore us out. And the entire time, we never knew who our daughter would be. She was this faceless, nameless child somewhere in the third largest country in the world, one little soul in a nation of 1.3 billion persons. But we knew she had been abandoned and needed a mommy and daddy. Then, around Christmas in 2003 we met with our agency representative in Newark, Delaware.

“I have something you’re going to be very excited about … your daughter,” she said with a smile.

She produced a letter sized manila envelope and slid it across the polished wooden table to us. We sat there in silence staring at it. The woman left the room, granting us privacy, and my wife emptied the contents of the envelope. There was minimal information printed across a single page listing our daughter’s Chinese name, probable date of birth, and the Southeastern China orphanage where she resided. Two photographs, both face down, spilled onto the table. Forgetting to breathe, we flipped them over and for the very first time saw the face of our daughter. Tears filled our eyes as we stared blankly at the images of this petite cherub-faced child, jet black hair, and round dark eyes staring into the camera.

Her name was Ji Hua Chen, but we already knew her as Rebekah Joy Smith. We would later keep part of her Chinese name, Ji, as a second middle name. In only five months, we would fly to bring this girl home, her permanent family home.

After our visit with our representative, we drove back to our quiet house to trim our Christmas tree and prepare to celebrate the holiday season, our final one without our tiny daughter.

“As I hang the tinsel on the tree and watch the twinkling lights,

I’m warmed by the fire’s glow,

Outside the children tumble in a wonderland of white,

And make angels in the snow.

And half a world away you try your best to fight the tears,

And hope that heaven’s angels come to carry you here.

It’s Christmastime again but you’re not home,

Your family is here and yet you’re somewhere else alone,

So tonight I pray that God will come and hold you in His arms,

And tell you from my heart, I wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Our first Christmas with Rebekah in 2004 was wonderful, despite the fact she was sick with a runny nose. Many of the Christmas morning photographs captured a nose redder than Rudolph’s. And being only 18 months old, she didn’t fully grasp the concept of opening presents, usually more entertained by the empty box than what was inside. But joy reigned over our household that season, and we were thankful for our family. Life was good; God was good.

And then my wife discovered she was pregnant. Suspicions were confirmed by a pediatrician’s foolproof blood test, and every visit after that confirmed the baby was in perfect health. We rejoiced! The first time we heard the baby’s heartbeat on the ultrasound, we wept. We also learned we would have a son—Matthew Robert Smith, his middle name coming from his paternal grandfather who would die from lung cancer prior to the baby’s birth. Rebekah was going to have a little brother to grow up with.