Three Christmas Stories

 01 -- MY ARREST AND RESCUE DURING CHRISTMAS WEEK

From "Striking Illustrations" by H. C. Morrison

It was during Christmas week that I was placed under arrest and dragged into court. I was a very small boy, in my fourteenth year; I would be fourteen years of age the tenth of the coming March. I was caught in the act; there was no excuse, there seemed to be no help or hope. I was guilty, I was thrust into the prisoners' dock, the gate was slammed, and a big policeman leaned on the gate, and seemed to look at me with a degree of satisfaction at the thought that he had me, and that I was sure of punishment.

I felt utterly helpless; I could not even weep, I had wept all the tears out of my system; I was dry and emotionless, except I was crushed to the very earth with a sense of my guilt and lostness. The judge was in his big chair but I did not dare look at him. I had no hope for mercy, and I knew that justice would be my ruin.

The courthouse was packed with people; they were gazing at me, as I crouched in the corner of the dock, with looks of accusation which seemed to say, Judge, give him the full benefit of the law and save society from further trouble. Finally, the clerk announced the opening of the court and my case came first. The judge asked the clerk if the boy had any one to represent him. Represent was a new word to me; I supposed my representative was to be my executioner. The clerk answered that I had no one. The judge then said to a lawyer within the bar, I appoint you to represent this boy. The lawyer arose and walking slowly forward, picking his way among the chairs, approached the dock, pushed the policeman to one side, opened the gate and stepped inside the dock. I, withered with fear, crouched closely in my corner, and with eyes wide open with horror, gazed up at my lawyer. He had a wonderful face; it was strong and calm, full of kindness and marvelous beauty. I noticed a tear hanging on his eyelashes; that tear helped me wonderfully. He sat down and slipped his arm around me. It seemed that my very bones had dropped out of their sockets and I was scarcely breathing below my collar button. My attorney drew me up to him; the pressure was so gentle, and yet so strong, it seemed to restore and readjust my bones, relax my nerves, and I commenced to breathe more deeply. Stooping down his silken beard brushed over my suntanned face, and placing his lips close to my ear, he said, "My little friend, are you guilty?" I could not have lied to him if it had been to save my life. With trembling voice I answered, "Yes sir, I am guilty of much more than they know about." "Well," said he, "do you not think it will be best for us to confess judgment and throw you on the mercy of the court?" I did not know what it meant to be thrown on the mercy of the court, but I felt sure that if he would throw me I would alight in the best place there was for me, and I at once answered in the affirmative. My lawyer gave me a gentle pat on the head, and stood up facing the judge.

He said: "Please your Honor, it has been my privilege to practice for many years in your Honor's court, and I have been glad to notice that when the ends of justice can be secured, and society can be protected, it has been your Honor's prerogative to show mercy. I thank the court for appointing me to plead in the interest of this little boy. He confesses his guilt. His heart is broken, he is full of contrition; he has been an orphan from his infancy and is dependent and moneyless, and begs for compassion."

I reached out my soiled, lean fingers and caught hold of the skirt of my attorney's coat. I clung to him with the feeling that if I would hold onto him he would pull me out. I thought his speech was finished but it was a mere introduction. A deep stillness fell upon the great gathering of people and his mellow voice rose until it filled the great room with a most marvelous appeal. He spoke of orphan children, of their loneliness, of their unprotected condition, of the temptations to which they were subjected, of their desolation, like lambs without a shepherd in a world full of hungry wolves seeking to destroy. He spoke until the harsh people softened, old men groaned aloud. He spoke until the tears trickled down the policeman's cheek and looking kindly at me he whispered to know if I did not want a drink of water. I was too busy clinging to the coat-tail of my attorney, gazing into his wonderful face, and listening to his marvelous words, to want anything else. I was breathing deep, new life and hope were creeping into me. I was falling desperately in love with my lawyer.

My attorney said, "Please your Honor, if you in the spirit of mercy, will dismiss the charges and set the lad free, I pledge myself to become his guardian, to see to it that he has a home and protection. I will look after his education and I promise to give to society a good and useful citizen.

I could scarcely keep from crying aloud for joy. It seemed my heart would burst within me for gratitude. I felt as if they would let me place my ragged shoes upon the bench upon which I sat, and throw my ragged coat sleeve about the neck of my attorney and kiss his cheek one time, they might take me out and hang me, and I would die shouting.

In the midst of his wonderful address my attorney, instead of addressing the judge as "Your Honor," said, "My Father." This shot through me. I saw that if the judge had appointed his own son to plead for me it was more than likely that he would heed his pleadings and show me mercy. Men were weeping all over the courthouse. I had both hands full of the skirts of the coat of my lawyer; the policeman had laid aside his cap, had gotten out his handkerchief, and had buried his face in a flood of tears. It was a powerful moment in my trial; my attorney had reached his climax. He exclaimed, "My father, this child for whom I plead is none other than my brother." I saw at once that if the judge was the father of my attorney, and the attorney was my brother, then the judge was my father also. I could restrain myself no longer. I gave a great cry of joy, leaped out of the dock, rushed up into the judge's stand and flung myself upon his bosom. He embraced me with a long, tender pressure that seemed to make me through and through a new creature. Folding me in his arms he stood up and said, "Rejoice with me, for my son who was dead is alive, who was lost is found." The entire crowd in the courthouse broke into tears and laughter. The people embraced each other; they all seemed to want to shake hands with me. They congratulated my attorney, and we laughed, and wept, and shouted together.

I hardly need tell you that the courthouse was a Methodist Church, that the trial was an old-time revival, that the Word of God arrested me and brought me, convicted and guilty, to the bar of justice; that the eternal Father was the Judge upon the throne, and that the Lord Jesus Christ was the attorney who plead my case, won my pardon, and secured my eternal salvation.

I look back with fondest memory to that great occasion when bowed and burdened with guilt, bound with sin, Jesus Christ undertook for me, broke my chains, swept away my guilt, and at the throne of the universe secured for me a full and free forgiveness, a blessed and glorious pardon, and revealed the blessed fact that the great God -- the Judge of all the world -- was, and is, my Father in heaven.

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02 -- NELLIE'S CHRISTMAS GIFT

From "Thrilling Stories," by Julia A. Shelhamer

Some years ago, while conducting a series of meetings in Michigan City, I was asked to preach to the convicts in the State prison. I sat on the platform with the governor of the prison and watched the prisoners march in -- 700 men, young and old. They marched in lock-step, every man's hand on the shoulder of the man before him. At the word of command they sat down. Among that number there were seventy-six lifers," men who had been committed to prison for life for the crime of murder.

After the singing I arose to preach, but could hardly speak for weeping. Disregarding all the rules of the prison, in my earnestness to help the poor, fallen men, I left the platform and walked down the aisle among them, taking one, and then another by the hand and praying for him. At the end of the row of men who were committed for murder sat a man who more than his fellows seemed marked by sin's blighting curse. His face was seamed and ridged with scars and marks of vice and sin... I placed my hand upon his shoulder and wept and prayed with and for him.

When the service was over, the governor said to me, "Do you know you have broken the rules of the prison by leaving the platform?" "Yes, governor, but I never can keep any rule while preaching. And I did want to get up close to the poor, despairing fellows and pray for them, and tell them of the love of Jesus the Savior. 'He came to seek and to save that which was lost. This Man (Jesus) receiveth sinners and eateth with them.'" (Luke 19:10; 15:2.)

"Do you remember," said the governor, "the man at the end of the line in the lifers' row, whom you prayed with? Would you like to hear his history?"

"Yes," I answered, gladly.

"Well, here it is in brief. Tom Galson was sent here about eight years ago for the crime of murder. He was, without doubt, one of the most desperate and vicious characters we had ever received, and, as was expected, gave us a great deal of trouble.

"One Christmas Eve, about six years ago, duty compelled me to spend the night at the prison, instead of at home, as I had anticipated. Early in the morning, while it was yet dark, I left the prison for my home, my pockets full of presents for my little girl. It was a bitter cold morning, and I buttoned my overcoat up to protect myself from the cutting wind that swept in from the lake. As I hurried along, I thought I saw somebody skulking in the shadow of the prison wall. I stopped and looked a little more closely, and then saw a little girl, wretchedly clothed in a thin dress; her bare feet thrust into a pair of shoes much the worse for wear. In her hand she held, tightly clasped, a small paper parcel. Wondering who she was, and why she was out so early in the morning, and yet too weary to be interested, I hurried on. But I soon heard that I was being followed. I stopped, and turned around, and there before me stood the same wretched-looking child.

"'What do you want?' I asked sharply. 'Are you the governor of the prison, sir?' 'Yes, who are you, and why are you not at home?' 'Please, sir, I have no home; mamma died in the poorhouse two weeks ago, and she told me just before she died that papa (that Tom Galson) was in prison, and she thought that maybe he would like to see his little girl, now that mamma is dead. Please, can't you let me see my papa? Today is Christmas, and I want to give him a present.'

"'No,' I replied gruffly, 'you will have to wait until visitors' day,' and started on. I had not gone many steps when I felt a pull at my coat, and a pleading voice said, 'Please, don't go.' I stopped once more, and looked into the pinched, beseeching face before me. Great tears were in her eyes, while her little chin quivered with emotion.

"'Mister,' she said, 'if your little girl was me, and your girl's mamma had died in the poorhouse, and her papa was in the prison, and she had no place to go and no one to love her, don't you think she would like to see her papa? If it was Christmas, and your little girl came to me, if I was governor of the prison, and asked me to please let me see her papa to give him a Christmas present, don't you -- don't you think I would say yes?'

"By this time a great lump was in my throat, and my eyes were swimming in tears. I answered, 'Yes, my little girl, I think you would, and you shall see your papa, and, taking her hand, I hurried back to the prison, thinking of my own fair-haired little girl at home. Arriving in my office, I bade her come near the warm stove, while I sent a guard to bring No.37 from his cell. As soon as he came into the office he saw the little girl. His face clouded with an angry frown, and in a gruff, savage tone he snapped out:

"'Nellie, what are you doing here; what do you want? Go back to your mother.' 'Please, papa,' sobbed the little girl, 'mamma's dead. She died two weeks ago in the poorhouse, and before she died she told me to take care of little Jimmie, because you loved him so; and told me to tell you she loved you, too -- but, papa' -- and here her voice broke in sobs and tears -- 'Jimmie died, too, last week, and now I am alone, papa, and today's Christmas, papa, and -- and I thought, maybe as you loved Jimmie, you would like a little Christmas present from him.'

"Here she unrolled the little bundle she held in her hand, until she came to a little package of tissue paper, from which she took out a little fair curl, and put it in her father's hand, saying, as she did so: 'I cut it from dear little Jimmie's head, papa, just afore they buried him.'

"No.37 by this time was sobbing like a child and so was I. Stooping down, 37 picked up the little girl, pressed her convulsively to his breast, while his great frame shook convulsively with suppressed emotion.

"The scene was too sacred for me to look upon, so I softly opened the door and left them alone. In about an hour I returned. No.37 sat near the stove, with his little daughter on his knee. He looked at me sheepishly for a moment, and then said, 'Governor, I haven't any money; then suddenly stripping off his prison jacket, he said, 'Don't let my little girl go out this bitter cold day with that thin dress. Let me give her this coat. I'll work early and late; I'll do anything, I'll be a man. Please, governor, let me cover her with this coat.' Tears were streaming down the face of the hardened man.

"'No, Galson" I said, 'keep your coat; your little girl shall not suffer. I'll take her to my home and see what my wife can do for her.' 'God bless you,' sobbed Galson. I took the girl to my home. She remained with us a number of years, and became a true Christian by faith in the Lord Jesus Christ."

Tom Galson also became a Christian, and on a subsequent visit to the prison the governor said to me, "Would you like to see Tom Galson, whose story I told you a few years ago?" "Yes, I would," I answered. He took me down a quiet street, and stopping at a neat home, knocked at the door. The door was opened by a cheerful woman, who greeted the governor with the utmost cordiality. We went in and then the governor introduced me to Nellie and her father, who, because of his reformation, had received pardon, and was now living an upright Christian life with his daughter, whose little Christmas gift had broken his hard heart. --Anon.

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03 -- HOW GOD ANSWERED A PRAYER FOR CHRISTMAS FOOD

From "2700-Plus Sermon Illustrations" Compiled By Duane V. Maxey

A tired-looking woman entered a grocery store and asked the owner for enough food to make a Christmas dinner for her children. When he inquired how much she could afford, she answered, "My husband was killed in an accident. Truthfully, I have nothing to offer but a little prayer." Although the man was unmoved at first, he thought of a clever response to the woman's simple request.

"Write your prayer on a piece of paper and you can have its weight in groceries," he said sarcastically. To his surprise, she plucked a folded note out of her pocket and handed it to him saying, "I already did that during the night while I was watching over my sick baby." Without even reading it, he put it on one side of his old-fashioned scales. "We shall see how much food this is worth," he muttered.

To his dismay nothing happened when he put a loaf of bread on the other side. But he was even more upset when he added other items and it would not balance. Finally he blurted out, "Well, that's all it will hold anyway. Here's a bag. You'll have to put these things in yourself. "I'm busy!" With a tearful "Thank you," the lady went happily on her way. The grocer later discovered that the scales were out of order.

As the years passed he often wondered if that was just a coincidence. Why did the woman have the prayer already written before he asked for it? Why did she come at exactly the time the mechanism broke? Whenever he looks at the slip of paper which bears that mother's petition, he is amazed, for it reads, "Please, dear Lord, give us this day our daily, bread!"