Well I guess it's my turn to add my "two-cents worth" to our blog. Up until now Bonnie has been carrying me and she told me it was time to step up the the plate. Thus I make my initial entry to "the Rust of the story."
I was looking at this picture yesterday after I got home from church and thought to myself, "you are one lucky guy!" How blessed we are to have terrific kids and how thankful I am that they don't think we're half bad parents.
As you can see, we made the annual visit to our favorite place to cut a Christmas tree down. It doesn't take us long to pick one out because over the years we learned that there is only one opinion that ultimately counts on which one we get and that's the mothers! I must say though that Bonnie has never done us wrong and they always look beautiful. As we sat in the living room last night looking at our tree, I realized that it is somewhat of a living history for us. There are ornaments from our childhood, ornaments from Grandma Gray or Aunt Julie who continued the tradition for them., and ornaments from places that we've visited (a budha ornament from Thailand even)! Lots and lots of memories!
As we think about the Christmas season on behalf of all of us up here in the Northwest, we want to wish you all a Merry Christmas. With that, I share a story for thought.
"Christmas is for love. It is for joy, for giving and sharing, for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly, Christmas is for love.
"Mark was an 11 year old orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter middle aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to remind young Mark, if it hadn't been for her generostiy, he would be a vagrant, homelss waif. Still, with all the scolding and chilliness at home, he was a sweet and gentle child.
"I had not noticed Mark particularly unti he bagan to staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his aunt's anger, I later found) to help me straighten up the room. We did this quietly and comfortably, not speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour of day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always spent much time with him.
"As Christmas drew near however, Mark failed to stay after school each day. I looked forward to his coming and when the days passed and he continued to scamper hurriedly from the room after class, I stopped him one afternoon and asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told him how I had missed him and his large gray eyes lit up eagerly as he replied, 'Did you really miss me?'
"I explained how he had been my best helper. 'I was making you a surprise,' he whispered confidentially. 'It's for Christmas.' With that, he became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He didn't stay after school any more after that.
"Finally came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands concealing something behind his back. 'I have your present,' he said timidly when I looked up. 'I hope you like it.' He held out his hands, and there lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.
"'It's beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it.' I asked opening the top to look inside.
"'Oh you can't see what's in it,' he replied, 'and you can't touch it or taste it or feel it, but mother always said it makes you feel good all the time, warm on cold nights and safe when you're all alone.'
"I gazed into the the empty box. 'What is it Mark,' I asked gently, 'that will make me feel so good?' 'It's love,' he whispered softly, 'and mother always said it's best when you give it away.' And he turned and quietly left the room.
"So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I explain to them that there is love in it.
"Yes, Christmas is for gaiety, mirth and song, for good and wondrous gifts. But mostly, Christmas is for love."
`Author Unknown
May all of our boxes be filled with love this Christmas season!
Craig, Bonnie and the boys!
I was looking at this picture yesterday after I got home from church and thought to myself, "you are one lucky guy!" How blessed we are to have terrific kids and how thankful I am that they don't think we're half bad parents.
As you can see, we made the annual visit to our favorite place to cut a Christmas tree down. It doesn't take us long to pick one out because over the years we learned that there is only one opinion that ultimately counts on which one we get and that's the mothers! I must say though that Bonnie has never done us wrong and they always look beautiful. As we sat in the living room last night looking at our tree, I realized that it is somewhat of a living history for us. There are ornaments from our childhood, ornaments from Grandma Gray or Aunt Julie who continued the tradition for them., and ornaments from places that we've visited (a budha ornament from Thailand even)! Lots and lots of memories!
As we think about the Christmas season on behalf of all of us up here in the Northwest, we want to wish you all a Merry Christmas. With that, I share a story for thought.
"Christmas is for love. It is for joy, for giving and sharing, for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly, Christmas is for love.
"Mark was an 11 year old orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter middle aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to remind young Mark, if it hadn't been for her generostiy, he would be a vagrant, homelss waif. Still, with all the scolding and chilliness at home, he was a sweet and gentle child.
"I had not noticed Mark particularly unti he bagan to staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his aunt's anger, I later found) to help me straighten up the room. We did this quietly and comfortably, not speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour of day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always spent much time with him.
"As Christmas drew near however, Mark failed to stay after school each day. I looked forward to his coming and when the days passed and he continued to scamper hurriedly from the room after class, I stopped him one afternoon and asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told him how I had missed him and his large gray eyes lit up eagerly as he replied, 'Did you really miss me?'
"I explained how he had been my best helper. 'I was making you a surprise,' he whispered confidentially. 'It's for Christmas.' With that, he became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He didn't stay after school any more after that.
"Finally came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands concealing something behind his back. 'I have your present,' he said timidly when I looked up. 'I hope you like it.' He held out his hands, and there lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.
"'It's beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it.' I asked opening the top to look inside.
"'Oh you can't see what's in it,' he replied, 'and you can't touch it or taste it or feel it, but mother always said it makes you feel good all the time, warm on cold nights and safe when you're all alone.'
"I gazed into the the empty box. 'What is it Mark,' I asked gently, 'that will make me feel so good?' 'It's love,' he whispered softly, 'and mother always said it's best when you give it away.' And he turned and quietly left the room.
"So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I explain to them that there is love in it.
"Yes, Christmas is for gaiety, mirth and song, for good and wondrous gifts. But mostly, Christmas is for love."
`Author Unknown
May all of our boxes be filled with love this Christmas season!
Craig, Bonnie and the boys!
