The most frightened shepherd that night was little Ladius, just ten. He cowered behind his three older brothers when the blinding star lit the hillside. When the angel appeared, he hid behind a huge rock.

Yet after Ladius heard the glad news, fear left him, and he limped back to his brothers, who were planning to set out for Bethlehem.

"Who will tend the sheep?" asked Samuel, the oldest at sixteen. Ladius, leaning against his shepherd's crook to support a crippled foot, volunteered, "I'd only slow you down. Let me stay with the sheep."

He wet his lip as he talked. The brothers weakly protested at first, then made plans to go.

"We must each take a gift," said Samuel. One brother chose his flint to start a fire for the Christ child. Another picked meadow lilies to make a garland for the king. Samuel decided on his most precious possession - his gold ring.

"Here - take my blanket to him," said Ladius. It was badly worn, a faded blue with patches.

"No, Ladius," said Samuel, tenderly. "The blanket is too tattered to give even a beggar - let alone a king. Besides, you will need it tonight."

The brothers departed, leaving Ladius alone by the fire. He laid his head upon the blanket and buried his face in his hands. Tears forced their way between his fingers, but soon the hush of night soothed the boy's heartbreak. The world in silent stillness lay.

"Are you coming, Ladius?" called a voice. Standing nearby was the same angel who had brought the news. "You wanted to see the child, didn't you?"

"Yes," nodded Ladius, "but I must stay here."

"My name is Gabriel," said the angel. "Your sheep will be watched. Take my hand, and bring your blanket. The child may need it."

Suddenly, Ladius was outside a stable. Kneeling by a manger were his brothers. Ladius started to call out, but the angel lifted a finger to his lips.

"Give me the blanket," Gabriel whispered. The angel took it and quietly covered the baby. But the blanket was no longer faded. Now it glistened like dew in the brilliance of a new day. Returning, Gabriel squeezed Ladius's hand: "Your gift was best, because you gave all that you had."

"Wake up, Ladius, wake up!" The boy rubbed his eyes and tried to shield them from the glaring sun. Hovering over him was Samuel.

"Did you find him?" asked Ladius."

"Yes," replied Samuel, "but first tell me why you were sleeping without your blanket."

Ladius looked about with wonder. The faded blue blanket was nowhere to be found - then, or thereafter.
~ Fred Bauer ~

On a December night in Chicago several years ago, a little girl climbed onto her father's lap and asked a question. It was a simple question, asked in children's curiosity, yet it had a heart-rending effect on Robert May. "Daddy," four-year old Barbara asked, "Why isn't my Mommy just like everybody else's mommy?"

Bob May stole a glance across his shabby two room apartment. On a couch lay his young wife, Evelyn, racked with cancer. For two years she had been bedridden; for two years, all Bob's income and smaller savings had gone to pay for treatments and medicines.

The terrible ordeal already had shattered two adult lives. Now Bob suddenly realized the happiness of his growing daughter was also in jeopardy. As he ran his fingers through Barbara's hair, he prayed for some satisfactory answer to her question.

Bob May knew only too well what it meant to be "different." As a child he had been weak and delicate. With the innocent cruelty of children, his playmates had continually goaded the stunted, skinny lad to tears. Later at Dartmouth, from which he was graduated in 1926, Bob May was so small that he was always being mistaken for someone's little brother.

Nor was his adult life much happier. Unlike many of his classmates who floated from college into plush jobs, Bob became a lowly copy writer for Montgomery Ward, the big Chicago mail order house. Now at 33 Bob was deep in debt, depressed and sad.

Although Bob did not know it at the time, the answer he gave the tousled haired child on his lap was to bring him to fame and fortune. It was also to bring joy to countless thousands of children like his own Barbara. On that December night in the shabby Chicago apartment, Bob cradled his little girl's head against his shoulder and began to tell a story...

"Once upon a time there was a reindeer named Rudolph, the only reindeer in the world that had a big red nose. Naturally people called him Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." As Bob went on to tell about Rudolph, he tried desperately to communicate to Barbara the knowledge that, even though some creatures of God are strange and different, they often enjoy the miraculous power to make others happy.

Rudolph, Bob explained, was terribly embarrassed by his unique nose. Other reindeer laughed at him; his mother and father and sister were mortified too. Even Rudolph wallowed in self pity.

"Well," continued Bob, "one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus got his team of husky reindeer - Blitzen, Comet, Cupid, Dasher, Dancer, Donner, Prancer, and Vixen ready for their yearly trip around the world. The entire reindeer community assembled to cheer these great heroes on their way. But a terrible fog engulfed the earth that evening, and Santa knew that the mist was so thick he wouldn't be able to find any chimney."

Suddenly Rudolph appeared, his red nose glowing brighter than ever. Santa sensed at once that here was the answer to his perplexing problem. He led Rudolph to the front of the sleigh, fastened the harness and climbed in. They were off! Rudolph guided Santa safely to every chimney that night. Rain and fog, snow and sleet; nothing bothered Rudolph, for his bright nose penetrated the mist like a beacon.

"And so it was that Rudolph became the most famous and beloved of all the reindeer. The huge red nose he once hid in shame was now the envy of every buck and doe in the reindeer world. Santa Claus told everyone that Rudolph had saved the day and from that Christmas, Rudolph has been living serenely and happy."

Little Barbara laughed with glee when her father finished. Every night she begged him to repeat the tale until finally Bob could rattle it off in his sleep. Then, at Christmas time he decided to make the story into a poem like "The Night Before Christmas" and prepare it in bookish form illustrated with pictures, for Barbara's personal gift. Night after night, Bob worked on the verses after Barbara had gone to bed for he was determined his daughter should have a worthwhile gift, even though he could not afford to buy one...

Then as Bob was about to put the finishing touches on Rudolph, tragedy struck. Evelyn May died. Bob, his hopes crushed, turned to Barbara as chief comfort. Yet, despite his grief, he sat at his desk in the quiet, now lonely apartment, and worked on "Rudolph" with tears in his eyes.

Shortly after Barbara had cried with joy over his handmade gift on Christmas morning, Bob was asked to an employee's holiday party at Montgomery Wards. He didn't want to go, but his office associates insisted. When Bob finally agreed, he took with him the poem and read it to the crowd. First the noisy throng listened in laughter and gaiety. Then they became silent, and at the end, broke into spontaneous applause. That was in 1938.

By Christmas of 1947, some 6,000,000 copies of the booklet had been given away or sold, making Rudolph one of the most widely distributed books in the world. The demand for Rudolph sponsored products, increased so much in variety and number that educators and historians predicted Rudolph would come to occupy a permanent place in the Christmas legend.

Through the years of unhappiness, the tragedy of his wife's death and his ultimate success with Rudolph, Bob May has captured a sense of serenity. And as each Christmas rolls around he recalls with thankfulness the night when his daughter's, Barbara, questions inspired him to write the story.

Denver Gillen, an artist and friend of Robert May made the first drawings of the red-nosed reindeer after spending an afternoon at the zoo. After considering scores of names for his new creation, May took the advice of his little daughter and settled on Rudolph.

In the first year of distribution, 1939, 2.4 million "Rudolph" booklets were handed out in Montgomery Ward stores. They continued this tradition, albeit sporadically, until 1947 when a another friend of May’s, Johnny Marks, put the poem to music. After a great many artists passed on the opportunity, Gene Autry agreed and recorded the song in 1949. Since his hit release of "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer," more than 300 different recordings have been made, and more than eighty million records sold. Gene Autry’s rendition is the third best-selling record of all time, falling only to Bing Crosby’s "White Christmas" at number two, and Elton John’s "Candle in the Wind" (1997) at number one.
~ Resources: Various News Articles ~

What could be done? The Inn was full of folk: His Honor Marcus Lucius, and his scribes who made the census; honorable men from farthest Galilee came hitherward to be enrolled. High ladies and their lords; the rich, the rabbis, such a noble thing as Bethlehem had not seen before, and may not see again.

And there they were, close herded with their servants, till the inn was like a hive at swarming time, and I was fairly crazed among them.

That they were so important - just the two - no servants, just a workman sort of man, leading a donkey, and his wife thereon, drooping and pale. I saw them not myself. My servants must have driven them away. But had I seen them, how was I to know?

Were inns to welcome stragglers, up and down in all our towns from Beersheba to Dan, till He should come? And how were men to know? There was a sign, they say, a heavenly light resplendent; but I had no time for stars. And there were songs of angels in the air out on the hills. But how was I to hear amid the thousand clamors of an inn?

Of course, had I known then who they were, and who was He that should be born that night - for now I learn that they will make Him King, a second David who will ransom us from these Philistine Romans. Who but He that feeds an army with a loaf of bread, and if the soldier falls He touches him, and up he leaps uninjured! Had I known, I would have turned the whole inn upside down - His Honor Marcus Lucius, and the rest, and sent them all to stables - had I known.

So you have seen Him, stranger, and perhaps again will see Him. Please say for me I did not know; and if He comes again, as He will surely come, with retinue and banners, and an army, tell my Lord that all my inn is His, to make amends.

Alas, alas! to miss a chance like that! This inn that might be chief among them all, this birthplace of Messiah - had I known!
~ Amos K. Wells ~

The statuette of an angel holding the hand of a little boy had been placed on a neglected back shelf in an antique shop. It was covered with soot and dust, lost amidst the clutter of jars, dishes, and ornaments. A man browsing through the shop discovered the figurine and took it in his hands. He had an inspiration: he would rescue it from oblivion, restore it, and give it a place of honor among his Christmas decorations.

At home, in his basement workshop, the man covered the angel and the child with glistening white paint. Then he painted the wings of the angel and the hair of the little boy with sparkling gold. Each brush stroke worked magic. The old, grime-covered statuette vanished, and a shining, new one appeared. The statuette was transformed before his eyes into a thing of radiant beauty.

As the man painted, he thought: Isn't this what happens to people at Christmas? They come to the end of the year dust-covered from the struggle. And then Christmas inspires them to repaint the better angels of their nature with love and joy and peace!

The art of repainting the angel! This is man's lifelong task: never to stay down in the dust and the dirt, but, heroically, to rise again after each fall - to create a new life.

Repainting the angel! A man need never lose his ideals, dreams, and purposes. He can always make them gleam again with the glory of renewed hope.

Repainting the angel! There is a hidden goodness within every man, and he has the power to bring it forth.

Repainting the angel! Each high thought a man thinks works magic. It helps to transform him and renew his spirit. Just as gold paint will change a statuette, golden thoughts will change a man.
~ Wilfred Peterson ~

The young priest was worried. Within twenty-four hours he was supposed to lead a Christmas Eve service, but he had no music. The Salzach River that flowed near the village church of Oberndorf, Austria, caused chronic moisture which had rusted the pipe organ. Without the organ there would be no music. And what was Christmas Eve without music?

Father Josef Mohr had but recently come to this tiny village. The night of December 23 he had attended the town Christmas play. But instead of going home afterwards, he had climbed the small mountain overlooking the town and soaked in the beauty and quiet of the darkness. It was nearly midnight before he reached his room. And so in the wee hours of December 24, 1818, he sat down to pen a new song, one which could be played on a guitar--at least that wasn't broken.

"Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!" he wrote. "Silent night, holy night." The nighttime peacefulness of Oberndorf was fresh in his mind; beyond it he could imagine Bethlehem, bathed in moonglow:

All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and child!
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace
The words were flowing now. He could visualize shepherds quaking, shaken from the quietness of their vigil by the glories streaming from heaven. He could see the child's countenance:

Son of God, love's pure light,
Radiant beams from Thy holy face,
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.
It wasn't long until the simple poem was finished. Now, perhaps he could sleep. The next morning he brought the poem to his organist, Franz Grüber. "I know it's the last minute," he must have said, "but could you put a tune to this song for the service tonight? Something simple that I could accompany on the guitar?" Father Mohr was new to the parish, and to the church's chief musician. But then, Grüber was being paid, and at that moment his beloved organ wouldn't work. Grüber set about the task quickly and in a couple of hours he was done, just in time to rehearse with the choir before the service. Mohr sang tenor, Grüber sang bass, and the service went off beautifully with the new song. "Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!"

A master organ builder eventually came to Oberndorf to repair the rusted organ, and there learned of the carol. He copied the song and doubtless sang it as he worked on organs in the neighboring villages. From him, two families of traveling folk singers, similar to the Trapp Family Singers of "Sound of Music" fame, learned of the song and sang it in concerts all over Europe. In 1834 the Strasser family performed it for the king of Prussia, who ordered it sung every Christmas Eve by his cathedral choir. The Rainer family singers brought it to America in 1839. By mid-century it had become popular around the world, but no one could recall its composer.

The story of its fame was long to reach the tiny villages of Austria. But in 1854, Franz Grüber sent a letter to the leading musical authorities with his claim to have written the tune. In 1848 Father Mohr had died of pneumonia, but Grüber still had the original manuscript to show, and gradually he was recognized as composer.

Sometimes the smallest churches make the biggest contributions. In this case, God presented a most wonderful carol to the world from a tiny congregation, one that just happened to be called St. Nicholas' Church of Oberndorf.
~ Featured Article in St. Cecelia's Messenger, 1984 ~

A very long time ago, in the forests of Russia, there lived a peasant named Ivan and his wife, Maria. Although they had many friends and loved each other very much, they were unhappy because they had no children. More than anything else in the world, they wanted a son or daughter they could laugh and play with. One winter day, they stood watching children play in the forest. The children were having a great time romping in the snow, building a snowman, and throwing snowballs. Suddenly Ivan turned to his wife and said, "The children are having such fun making a snowman, let's build one too." So these two good people went out into the forest and started making a person out of snow.

Maria then said to Ivan, "Husband, since we have no children of our own, let us make a snow girl." Ivan agreed, and they proceeded to craft a pretty little maiden out of snow. They rolled the snow into dainty little hands and feet, then gave the snow maiden braids and little eyes and a petite nose and mouth. When they were done, they thought they had never seen such a pretty little girl. Struck with their own creation, Ivan said, "Little snow maiden, speak to me," and Maria exclaimed, "Yes, come to life so you can play and romp like the other children!" Before long, they noticed that the snow maiden's eyes began to flutter and her cheeks seemed to flush with a rosy color. At first they thought they must be imagining things, but soon a real little girl stood before them, with gleaming blue eyes and golden hair, in exactly the place where, only moments ago, a snow maiden had stood. At first they were to shocked to say anything and just stared at the little girl. Finally Ivan said, "Where do you come from? Who are you?"

"I have come from the land of winter, from the land of snow and ice and cold," the child replied. "I am your daughter, your own little girl." She ran to the couple and hugged them, and all three of them wept for joy. Soon the tears ended, and everyone was talking and laughing again, as this was the happiest moment of Ivan and Maria's life. At last they had a child of their own. They called to their neighbors in nearby huts and introduced them to their beautiful little girl, and everyone stayed up late that night, marveling over what had happened. There was much singing, dancing, and celebrating.

All the long Russian winter, the snow maiden played with the other children, and it seemed to the proud couple that their little girl was the prettiest of all. Everyone loved the little snow maiden, as she was always sweet and happy and good. She would run and play and romp with the other children all day. Ivan and Maria were very happy.

But when the first signs of spring appeared, and the air grew warmer and the snow started to melt, the little girl seemed tired. She was no longer as lively; she even appeared to be unhappy.

One day she came to Ivan and Maria and sang a song, her eyes filled with tears:

"The time has come for me to go
Away up North to the land of snow."

Her mother and father both begged her to stay, saying they would not let her leave, and they became so upset that they too began to cry. Ivan jumped up and shut the door to the hut so the snow maiden couldn't leave, and Maria hugged her tight. But as Maria held her little girl, the child started to melt away. Soon there was nothing left of the Snow Maiden except her white fur cap and white fur coat. Where the snow maiden had once stood, there was now only a puddle of water. Ivan and Maria wept bitterly.

Later they consoled themselves with the thought that maybe the snow maiden would return to them someday. But all summer long they were lonely, and could not bear to hear the laughter of other children. It reminded them of the little girl they believed they had lost forever. Summer turned into fall and fall into winter, and once again it was cold and icy outside. One night Ivan and Maria heard a knock on their door. The couple wondered who could be calling at that hour. Then they heard a familiar voice sing a song:

"Mother! Father! Open the door!
The snow has brought me back once more!"

Ivan threw open the door and the snow maiden ran into the arms of her father and mother. All that winter she lived with them and played with the other village children. But in the spring, she had to go back North to the land of cold and ice and snow, whence she had come. This time Ivan and Maria did not weep, knowing she would return once more when winter appeared on the land. And so it was that the snow maiden lived with the couple every winter and left in spring.
~ Snegurochka, retold by Russian storyteller Alexander Afanasiev. ~