Trudge through the icy streets of an eighteenth century English village to find a message of hope on Christmas Eve. Take in the beauty of hundreds of red poinsettias in gold foil-wrapped pots as winter brings delight to a senior care center. Share the antics of a chubby five year-old who makes a friend of a grumpy old grandpa. See how a cantankerous camel and rag picker show a snooty businessman how he can catch the spirit of the season. Discover the secret of the Vietnam War vet who shares an unusual talent year after year in a bleak hospital ward.
Follow the daughter of a San Francisco flower child of the sixties, who abandoned and alone makes her way back "home". A homeless man with a cardboard sign, who stands beside a freeway onramp, finds a new family, and a baby boy given away at birth is reunited with his birth mother. A daughter of a French emigrant greets a special guest on Christmas morning and a lost child is found by a clue given by an aged great aunt suffering from Alzheimer's, but blessed with a few precious moments of clarity, making a family whole again.
Christmas Echoes, old and new, snipped from the pages of family histories, borrowed from childhood memories, gleaned from tender moments of both heartbreaks and joys. Bitter pills when swallowed, bring forth peace, comfort and renewed faith in one's self and fellow men. Trials and struggles overcome, herald honesty, hope and the promise of memories yet unmade. Heartstrings are bound to be tugged, tears may escape and course down the cheek, Christmas Echoes will resound in the soft places of your own soul.
The bitter cold English winter chilled our bones as we, two Mormon Elders trudged the muddy tracks of the street in the town of Walsall, Staffordshire, England. Slushy piles of snow slowed our progress as we made our way toward the center of town. The wind at our backs bit our ears and fingers and threatened to lift away our top hats.
We had traveled far that day, December 24, 1842, first on the mail coach, which left us sixteen miles from Walsall. We then caught a ride on a farmer’s wagon and kept company with a crate of chickens, two kid goats and a large vat of milk.
It was late afternoon when my companion and I located the home of the family known as Higgenbotham, where we were to take up lodgings. Met at the door by a tired looking woman with sad eyes, we were turned away. The husband of the house, we were told, had been buried the day before and the good wife did not consider it seemly to give board to two strange men, even though we offered her payment in advance. Sorrowfully she waved away the coins and closed the door against us.
Well, Elder Stephens, it’s a fine pickle we’ve found ourselves in."
I pulled my great-coat about me and looked into the gaunt face of my companion. He had been ill with the ague and pleurisy for several weeks.
His pale white skin stretched over the high cheekbones of his face. He began a fit of coughing before he could comment.
After he caught his breath he suggested that we stop at the inn and ask about other lodgings. He picked up our grips and I shouldered a large portmanteau and we headed across the slushy road for the High Street Tavern and Inn.
As we stepped into the great room of the inn the smells of sour ale, sweaty bodies, and a lamb being turned on a spit in the fireplace assailed our noses.
"I can’t abide the smell of liquor since I got religion," I said, seeing my companion wrinkle his nose in disgust. "I haven’t touched a drop since I repented and joined The Church."
We made our way to a counter where a solitary, pocked-faced young man sat on a high stool thumbing through a dog-eared newspaper. "Kind sir," began my companion. "I am William Stephens and his is Jacob Billingsley. We are in need of lodgings."
The young man answered, as if he had always wanted to use the words, "Sorry sirs, it being Christmastide, there is no room at the inn."
He paused a moment for effect and then continued, "I hear the Baggerty sisters on South Millrace Road are taking in boarders. If not, ye’ll be hard pressed to find a room in town. Especially you, you’re a couple of them Mormon fellows, aren’t you?"
"Yes, we are, good sir," answered Elder Stephens. "And just what
do you know about the Mormons? We’d be happy to tell you the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ."
"Oh, the only thing I know about the Mormons is that they took away about half the town’s population a couple of years back. Good folks were persuaded to hie off to America after your strange religion. I have no truck myself, with such goin’s-ons. My father would have my hide if he even knew I was talking with you. You’d best be leaving now." He motioned us
toward the door.
We trudged about the town for the space of two hours and found no lodgings. One housewife chased us with a broom, calling us foreign devils. A portly gentleman, on hearing our request, threatened to turn his
hounds on us. At other cottages children peeked out windows and pointed fingers as their parents turned us away.
Our hands and faces were past stinging and I couldn’t feel my feet as we plodded along in our frozen boots. My heart was heavy with despair and when I looked into the eyes of my companion I could read weariness and hunger. Occasional coughing spells continued to nearly double him over and I knew from the bright red color on his cheeks that he would be running a fever.
We took shelter in the entryway of a closed shop and dropped our bags and parcels. Elder Stephens spoke, "I’ve been praying all afternoon and I know you have been too, Elder. Maybe the heavens are especially
busy today. Let’s pray again. Would you please?"
