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IS YOUR CHRISTMAS CHRIST CENTERED? (By Rev. Albert Nimelh, O.F.M.) The two children were so ex cited they could hardly open the monastery door. They were so breathless they could scarcely stammer: “It’s gone, Father, It’s gone!” “What’s gone?” .“Somebody stole it!” “Stole what?” “The Christ Child from the crib in the monastery yard.” A LITTLE CHILD . . . Sure enought. There it stood. Everything in its place; every thing pointing to the manger but the Christ Child was mis sing. Christmas would not be Christmas without a Christ Child. Oh, for the wisdom of children! They have a way of getting to the heart of a matter. Now we are not going to ask you to join a crusade to “put Christ back into Christmas.” We are simply asking you to recon sider. Let’s not become so en grossed in doing the customary things that we forget why we do them. Many of our customs originally had a connection with Christ and His birth and there is no harm in retaining them as long as their origin in Christ is remembered. For instance: Christmas gift- giving is meant to be an ex pression of love. Its purpose is to remind us of the great Gift of love on the first Christmas night. Our decorations and deli cacies indicate that inner joy we feel because Christ came into this bleak and dark world bringing light. Our special regard for the poor at Christmas time is in spired by the poverty of Christ. In the back of our minds we link the poor with Christ who identified himself with them. Even Santa Claus will not de tract from the true meaning of Christmas if We will only re call that St. Nicholas was one of the Saints who practiced the charity of Christ. If you want a norm to deter mine how much of Christ is in your Christmas, just ask your self the question: “Why?” Why are you sending cards? Why are you giving gifts? Why are you helping the poor? Why are you singing carols? All over the world in hun dreds and thousands of homes and churches, in Main Street shop windows and even on Broadway, crib scenes greet our eyes. Some are large, even life size. Some are tiny, capturing interest by their smallness. Some are well made, finely shaped; others are crude, but realistic. ORIGIN OF CRIB To some people the appear ance of these peaceful scenes means nothing but long hours of wearisome shopping. Fussy Aunt Jennie must be satisfied. WALKER MOTOR COMPANY "YOUR. FORD DEALER" Broad At 14th Street Augusta, Georgia Serve Your Treat Your FAMILY . . . FRIENDS . . . With the Finest AVERA'S FARM BRAND HAMS & BACON — SAUSAGE — BOLOGNA — and — BLUE RIBBON WIENERS AT YOUR FAVORITE GROCERS tv terry C-liristmas HILL DRUG COMPANY 1432 Monte Sano Avenue Phones RE. 3-3621 — RE. 3-3661 AUGUSTA, GEORGIA PRESCRIPTION SERVICE POULTRY PALACE WHOLESALE AMD RETAIL CHICKENS AND EGGS 1204 Ellis Street Dial PA. 2-9937 Augusta, Georgia To others the crib scene spells roast turkey and cranberry sauce—Thanksgiving all over again. ' To all people the crib scenes, regardless of shape or size, artis tic touch or lack of it, crystal lize one central idea—“Christ mas is coming.” These scenes rivet attention on the most im portant event in the history of the human race, the birth of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. These well known crib scenes are the offspring of the love of one Saint, the Poverello of Assisi. Seeking a new outlet for his love and wanting to spread devotion to the Babe of Beth lehem, St. Francis hit upon the novel idea of the crib scene. Among the wooded cliffs in the Umbrian hills he had Giovanni Velita reproduce in a lifelike and visable manner the birth of Christ. As the peasants made their way to Greccio along the torch- lit paths to Midnight Mass, at which Francis served as deacon, songs of praise rushed forth from glad throats and joyous hearts. Here 1300 years after the actual birth of Christ, the wooded glen re-echoed the (Continued on Page 4-B) < A Star For The Christ Child John Travers Moore is the author of “Sing-Along ’Sary’ (II a r c o u r t, Brace), “Little Saints” (Grail), “Modern Cru saders” (Farrar, Straus & Cuda hy), “The Three Tripps” (Bobbs-Merrill) and many oth er stories. By John Travers Moore On bitter winter nights such as this the boy and Granny would share fire and bread and hear the music of the wind, for the wind truly makes music in mountain countries. It sighs or hums in the pines or cedars, and sometimes even sounds like the swishing of ocean waves. To night, it was blowing fiercely. Now and then it would vibrate a loose board or bang the shut ter which had the broken lock. “Do . you hear somehing, Grandma?” The old woman did not an swer the boy. It is doubtful that she heard; she does not hear well. Neither were her eyes as good as they used to be, nor did she smile as often as she once did. She had reasons for not smiling: Times were hard and she was not getting any younger. She had fallen behind in her duties, too — her sew ing, for example. Anyone could tell that by the little boy’s clothes, particularly in back where the patches needed patching — although not a great deal could be done about the clothing generally, since it was originally intended for someone much larger, and thus, was more than ample, A CHILD IN THE SNOW The boy heard the cry again and went to the door. He slip ped outside. The night was bit ing. No stars were in the sky. Snow was falling, wild flakes scurrying to the earth as if im patient to join others to form a deeper spread of white. “Come to me,” the boy heard the voice call and hurried tow ard the sound. He found a child in the snow. “Help me,” said the child. The boy reached down and tried to lift the child but could not. “It would make no difference anyway,” the child said sadly. “I would still need a star to guide me home.” A gust of wind blew the words away. The tlittle boy wondered. He looked at the sky and saw no star. What manner of child was this who needed a star to chart his course home ward. He had heard of the Christ Child. Could this be the Christ Child? He turned his gaze to earth again — and the child was gone. Had it been an illusion, a mir age? Was he ill, delirious with fever? He felt his forehead. It was cold. He felt his nose; it was colder. He searched about, hoping to find the child. There was no sight of him. “Granny!” The boy ran back to the house, passing through the yellow patch of lamplight where he had seen the child. “Someone is out in the snow—.” He paused abruptly. "Was out in the snow.” The old grandmother frown ed because the boy had gone outdoors without his coat, but she listened to his story with the patience of the old. “It might have been the Christ Child,” she told him. “Who knows the mysterious ways of God?” She then chided him for going without the coat, and re minded him that it was Christ mas Eve and that he should soon be in bed. He lingered as long as he could. The Christmas tree was not decorated as elaborately as most. But it was a good tree. The only trouble was that a star was missing at the top. The star they had used had worn out, the year past. THE EMPTY CRIB The creche was in its accus tomed place under the tree. Granny would never miss put ting out the creche. Though it A MERRY CHRISTMAS E. J. McMahon & Company Plumbing and Heating Contractors 540 Bohler Ave. Augusta, Ga. Phones PA. 4-3506, PA. 4-3507 Merry Christmas BRIGHAM’S SUPER MARKET 2 FINE STORES "Augusta Owned — Augusta Operated" MERRY CHRISTMAS Smoak's Bakery BUY WITH CONFIDENCE SERVE WITH PRIDE 2108 CENTRAL AVENUE Phone RE. 3-5931 AUGUSTA, GEORGIA Semitone STARK - EIV 1PIRE Laundry Cleaning Dyeing Rug Cleaning Safety Savings AUGUSTA. GEORGIA THE BULLETIN, December 26. 1950 PAGE 3-B Was dusty in spots, where Gran ny missed seeing them, it was where it belonged, with the fig ures of Mary and Joseph and the Three Wise Men and the shepherds — and the little an gel with the chipped nose watching from the roof, peeking over the edge. The boy dusted the creche idly, glanced up at the tree, then down again at the creche. “Granny!” His eyes widened with amazement. The old lady turned in her rocker. She had no trouble hearing the call this time. “The crib is empty!” The grandmother leaned back and nodded. “I tried to find the figure of the Baby Jesus. It must have become lost.” “But how —” “Never mind I’ll look for it again.” The little boy was not ful ly comforted. A creche without the Baby Jesus was not com plete — not 'a creche at all. Even the angel with the chip ped nose seemed to be unhappy and not smiling. The star miss ing from the top of the tree was not encouraging either. The star — that was what the child in the snow had mentioned: A star to guide him home! The little boy set about im mediately to make a paper star from the Christmas wrappings they had saved from last year. He worked painstakingly on the shiniest of the lot. Granny watched him a mo ment, then quietly left the room. She went to the mirror of the old marble-top dresser. Thinking of the boy working so hard for the Christ Child, she smiled, and the mirror returned the smile, just as people do when smiled at. She glanced down, suddenly remembering where she had carefully put away the figure of the Child Jesus. It was before her in plain sight. She had left it there to have it nearer her during the year, but that it was in plain sight had, over dreary days, made it more difficult to see, simply because she had grown less aware of its presence. A STAR TO GUIDE The boy was still busy when the grandmother returned. His fingers did not fly. There was some extending of the tongue in concentration, first from one side of the mouth, then the oth er, and eventually a star was formed. It was not exact. What star is? It shone beautifully. It was a star to be proud of, a star for Christmas a star to guide one home? A star on a Christ mas tree guides anyone home at Christmastime. But the crib was empty. “Granny—” The boy started to tell Granny of it but stopped, startled, staring at the crib. “The Child is in the manger.” “I found Him while you were working so valiantly to give Him a star.” Granny smiled. “He was where I expected Him least.” It was good to see Gran ny smile; it made her face light up and soften like it used to. “Do you think, Granny,” the little boy asked, after collecting himself from his surprise, “that the child I saw in the snow was truly the Christ Child?” “Who can say?” The old grandmother stirred. “To bed with you now.” She watched thoughtfully as the boy climbed the worn, cottage stairs. The wind at the panes was breathing faintly, once more making a sort of music in the trees. Flakes, like stars, filled the night. They fell gently, sil ently, brushing the earth as softly as angels’ wings. The little boy knelt by his bed. “Have I given you a star, My Lord?” There was no answer, and al though he did not know it, a single-star peeped out from heaven among the clouds that had gathered with the storm. Downstairs, the old woman poked the fire and promised herself that mending would be done, for with busy hands again would come more happiness. She walked over to the Christ mas tree. In the creche below, the figure of the child Jesus lay sleeping, with Mary and Joseph watching over. The Three Wise Men offered their gifts; the shepherds were ador ing — even the little angel with the chipped nose seemed to be smiling in a vision of peace. The paper star at the top of the Christmas tree was shin ing, in its fashion, as brightly as any in the universe — a star for the Christ Child, a star to guide Him home. It was, per haps, a star of hope in a world of need, for without hope there is nothing, even as without Love there is no light. But, above all, it shone forth in the true glory — the spirit of remembering Christ at Christmastime. THE VIRGIN'S NAME WAS MARY Your Name is oil poured out On our smarting spirits, On our groaning hearts, O Mary, Your Name is oasis in our wasteland of waiting. It is wine after the black bread of regret, After love’s white fast. Your Name is like a silence full of bells. Mary, your Name is a pause in song. It is the moment before flight. Your Name is a waterfall of fragrance. It is a crystal dance of sound, Mary. Your name is a basilica of cool darkness For the frightened, the deserters Who have no place to pray. Your Name is as oil poured out On the troubled waters of the world. Your .Name is like a silence full of bells. —Sister Mary Frances,PoPr Clare (Reprinted by per mission of the author from her collection of poems “Where Caius Is”). Sections Creetin SI *lllernj Cl rilttna s and sd Sdappij lf\ew IJear frt CunSStd BREAD AND CAKE The South’s Finest Since 1841