Christmas Morning 2009

It's been said that to wake up on Christmas morning is to regret for a moment not being a child.  Isn't that the truth?

It's also true that five minutes after beginning to open the packages, the regret begins that the opening wasn't savored a little longer.

Now begins the long wait until Spring.

But wasn't it fun while it lasted?

Next year will be tweaked a bit.  We'll keep better lists of gifts.  We'll get better pictures for cards.  We'll meet with friends more often and laugh lots.  We'll definitely get our flu shots and start wrapping a little earlier.  And there will be lots less complaining for sure.  We'll learn from this year.  That's what we'll do.

But wasn't it fun even so?  It sure was.

"For God So Loved The World That He Gave His Only Begotten Son . . . "

I believe that it is such a miracle in itself that something so wonderful as the birth of the Savior could bring so many diverse people together in celebration so many years  later.  Christmas has been altered from Him in so many ways, yet He still is its is reason.  Amazing.

Our Front Door -

Merry Christmas

From the Aukschun House

To Yours!

Musical Mormons Thanks to Brigham

One of the nicest legacies of Brigham Young within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Mormon love of music, singing, playing of musical instruments, and the enjoyment of the performing arts.

Christmastime is crazy in the Church with these.  And we're pretty good at it, too.  We've got more pianos per capita, I think, than about just about anybody else, too.

The irony of this is that before his conversion to Mormonism, Brigham had been a Baptist  and had been taught to shun music in all its forms.  He more than made up for it.

It's been great this year again as I've enjoyed really good Relief Society dinners in both Julia's and my wards with music and with plays in the Daybreak 8th and 14th Wards.

The Best Christmas Gift Ever

Gotta remember the best childhood Christmas ever, don't I?  It has to be the one when I got the bike that is out in the garage right now as we speak.

There's not a soul who doesn't wonder why that ratty old bike is still in my possession unless it's my Dad who somehow has been notified out there in Hell that I've got it hanging ingloriously from the rafters over my little beauty of a car Carl gave me as a consolation prize for retiring.  (Actually I doubt Dad's really in Hell.  He probably just likes to visit some of his friends over there from time to time.)

I was seven years old, so that makes it sixty years ago, when I got it.  It was that rotten, lousy winter when the snow on the ground met the snow on the roof.  My parents had told me I couldn't have a big two-wheeler until my eighth birthday which wasn't until May so I expected nothing so glorious as that bike.

And there it was:  My beautiful blue bike, serial number EO44481, sitting under the tree.  I was astounded with joy.

The snow was way past the axle and yet I rode it around the block at 686 N. 8th East in Provo, Utah, 75,000 times that day.  I loved that bike.  I still love that bike.

I rode it until it looks like it does today, until I finally got my Driver's License.  I even rode it after that.  It had one speed, fat tires, could take three pounds off you in a half-hour ride and has more memories for me than anything else I have ever possessed.  Except I was not the one that lost the handlebars.  Carl did that I'll bet.

Dad kept it in his basement until I was middle-aged and I was too embarrassed to let him store it any longer.  I've kept it ever since.  I think he kept it because it was the best gift he ever gave anyone.  It has to have been.  He knew a good thing when he saw it whizzing around the block.

I think I'll insist that bike be buried with me.  that's how much I love it.  Right on top of the casket.  Laid with gentle care, of course.  No tossing for it.