The pastor of the church was looking over the cradle in the church's soon to be put away nativity scene when he noticed that the baby Jesus was missing from among the figures. Immediately he turned and went outside and saw a little boy with a red wagon. In the wagon was the figure of the little infant Jesus.
So he walked up to the boy and said, "Well, where did you get him, my fine friend?"
The little boy replied, "I got him from the church."
"And why did you take him?"
The boy said, "Well, about a week before Christmas I prayed to the little Lord Jesus and I told him if he would bring me a red wagon for Christmas I would give him a ride around the block in it."
I wondered if I could get my husband to help me address Christmas cards, as I had so much to do. I arranged everything we needed, then hopefully pulled up a chair and said, "Come on, Dear, let's get these out of the way."
He glanced at the array on the table, turned away and went into the den, only to return moments later with a high stack of cards, stamped, sealed, and addressed.
"They're last year's," he said. "I forgot to mail them. Now let's go out to dinner and relax."
Every December it was the same excruciating tradition. Our family would get up at the crack of dawn, go to a Christmas tree farm and tromp across acres of snow in search of the perfect tree.
Hours later our feet would be freezing, but Mom would press on, convinced the tree of her dreams was, "just up ahead."
One year I snapped. "Mom, face it. The perfect tree doesn't exist. It's like looking for a man. Just be satisfied if you can find one that isn't dead, doesn't have too many bald spots and is straight."