W-1896IL-Poem.doc

Christmas Poem

by Edgar Guest

A man is at his finest

Toward the finish of the year

He is almost what he should be

When Christmas seasons here.

Then he’s thinking more of others

Than he’s thought the months before

And the laughter of his children

Is a joy worth toiling for.

If I had to paint a picture

Of a man I think I’d wait

Till he’d fought his selfish battles

And put aside his hate.

I’d not take him when he’s sneering

When he’s scornful or depressed

But I’d look for him at Christmas

When he’s shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle

And he’s oft misunderstood

There are days the worst that’s in him

I the master of the good.

But at Christmas kindness rules him

And he puts himself aside

His petty hates are vanished

And his heart is opened wide.

Oh I don’t know how to say it

But somehow it seems to me

That at Christmas man is almost

What God sent him here to be.

Found hand written on above card in Ila (Bobbitt) Landau’s bible, with a note:

“I recited this poem at Christmas Church program December 20, 1981.”

By HELEN WOLSHIMER

A HOUSE should have a cookie jar,

For when it's half-past three,

And children hurry home from school

As hungry as can be,

There's nothing quite so splendid

In filling children up,

As spicy, fluffy ginger cakes,

And sweet milk in a cup.

A house should have a mother

Waiting with a hug

No matter what a boy brings home,

A puppy or a bug.

For children only loiter

When the bell rings to dismiss,

If no one's home to greet them

With a cookie or a kiss!

Birthdays

By Agnes Grace Howard

A birthday is a given time

To pause, and rest, and smile,

Before you start another year

And reach another mile.

A birthday is a waiting place

Where friends so kind and true,

May wish you joy and sweetly say

“May all go well with you."

A birthday is a sign-post or

A milestone on the way,

That leads us from the cradle

To the Great Beyond some day.

And God has placed an angel

At each sign post, it would seem,

To give us Faith and Courage

As we take the path unseen.

Which leads us onward, upward,

And with plain directions given,

In God's own Holy Written Word,

The path that leads to Heaven.

YOUR NAME

By Edgar A. Guest

You got it from your father. 'Twas the best he had to give.

And right gladly he bestowed it. It's yours, the while you live.

You may lose the watch he gave you and another you may claim,

But remember, when you're tempted, to be careful of his name.

It was fair the day you got it, and a worthy name to bear.

When he took it from his father, there was no dishonor there;

Through the years he proudly wore it, to his father he was true.

And that name was clean and spotless when he passed it on to you.

Oh, there's much that he has given that he values not at all.

He has watched you break your playthings in the days when you were small.

You have lost the knife he gave you and you've scattered many a game,

But you'll never hurt your father if you're careful with his name.

It is yours to wear forever, yours to wear the while you live.

Yours, perhaps, some distant morning, to another boy to give.

And you'll smile as did your father - with a smile that all can share –

If a clean name and a good name you are giving him to wear.

In Remembrance

SIR: Memorial Day -This is the day I make my small pilgrimage to my home cemetery, spend a minute of my time to meditate, and bring back those good: and great memories of our loved ones that passed on before us. It is for ever so peaceful. A few birds singing in the tree top or a little rabbit hopping around in the twigs off in the distance. So peaceful.

No one worries about the price or shortage of gasoline or who will be next president. They all went that route before us. You glance around and see the beautiful flowers resting on the graves. Very beautiful still they miss this wonderful aroma and smell of fresh flowers. Plastic flowers made in Japan or Taiwan, do not have it. No matter how humble and meek a plant may c be when its blossoms open up there is an aroma and fragrance that cannot be matched by any scientific form of smell.

With the abundance of flowers this time of year I believe in making that little sacrifice and picking my own flowers and making my own bouquet of flowers grown from good old mother earth.

Knowing my parents, coming from a humble background, born and raised on the farm, I know they would be a lot happier to know that I placed fresh flowers on their graves, grown and that they blossomed out of the good old Kansas mother earth that they cherished so much in their lifetime. Arthur Denning

An Octogenarians’s Prayer

By Jessie Carlson

Dear God, you know how long I've lived.

You know that now my days are filled

With my few tasks and naps and rest;

You know, too, that I've lived with zest!

So, Lord, please grant that I may keep

My sense of humor and the grace to weep

When I've been touched by grief’s or joys,

Or shared the pretense of small girls and boys.

May I still thrill at the crescent moon,

The plaintive cry of a lonely loon.

Let me rejoice in the cooing dove

And with all the young who fall in love.

Give me a kind, not a critical, eye

On events and people as they pass by.

Keep me sensitive to others' pain

And the strength not to let my own aches reign.

May I recall just the joys I've known

Yet not bore my listeners with tales of my own,

Don't let me sour, nor fret, nor scold -

The surest signs that I'm growing old!