A Christmas Special by Gerry Young

Painting by: Raffaello Sanzio 1513 A.D.

A CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

Compiled and/or written by: GERRY YOUNG
© 2011

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

FROM THE AUTHOR: Dear Friends, Readers, and other esteemed members of the Tickie Stories Family. Let me begin by saying that this is one of the rare, but not unseen, non-sexual submissions to this beautiful site that has come to offer an Omnibus — something for almost everyone — of genres for us all. If you were with Webmaster Tickie from the beginning, we're happy you're still with us. Sadly, we have lost some wonderful authors by various means and illnesses. We miss their stories. We miss their friendship and companionship. But most of all, we miss the love that was exchanged with one another across the Internet. May they Rest In Peace. But if you are new to our little, but growing, family, we wholeheartedly welcome you aboard, and hope you'll find a home here. But remember — we don't lock you in! You're free to leave whenever you want. No matter how much we'll miss you and your creativity.

With your kindness and resolve to 'hang in there for a bit', allow me to tell you what this submission is all about.

It's about me, really, from the time I was six years old until now (I'm sure you can do the math). But I promise not to 'hog' your valuable time, postponing your hurrying to take matters into your own hands and get your load unburdened.

Being the first of nine grandchildren to my maternal grandparents, I lived with them from my first birthday until my eighteenth, when I left home and joined the Navy. Lived? Oh, yes, and what a life it was for a kid growing up, discovering the world of twenty-eight pristine and primitive hilly, wooded acres forever changing around me in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. There were two creeks running through it; one of them was even dammed up to make 'ye olde swimmin' hole'. There were bright red Cardinals to see perched on snow-covered boughs of Cedar and Pine that were just outside my upstairs loft-bedroom window. It was in the two-story log house with plumes of gray smoke billowing out the chimney from our only source of heat — a roaring fireplace — or our only source of cooking — a wood-burning kitchen stove. We had a real Ice Box (you might call it an old fashioned refrigerator) for which Granddaddy had to haul in a large block of ice at LEAST once a week. Even in Winter.

Yes — and as a dear aunt told me years later — we were nearly as poor as Job's 'turkey', but we didn't know it. We loved it there. And we were happy. Grandmama, Granddaddy, three aunts (one became an Anesthesiologist, one became a PhD in Chemistry, in Physics, and in Nursing, and the third one became a Dental Hygienist), my sometimes-mother (when she wasn't absent with her newest boyfriend), and me — the black sheep of the family.

During the Spring, I discovered the joy of climbing the twisty, gnarly trunks and limbs of the white-blossomed Dogwood Trees. There were the Robin Red-breasts, the Ravens, the blue Jays — such beautiful blue birds with such hateful, malicious personalities — and the tiny, sparkling rainbow-hued Hummingbirds darting in and out of the small red blossoms of the Judas Trees (aka Redbuds). There were also the purplish-brown, fuzzy wild Ginger plants, the yellow Lady's Slippers, the green Jack-in-the-Pulpits, and the white Trilliums and Solomon's Seals. The wild orange-and-black Turk's Cap Lilies. The blue Gentians. The pink Zephyranthes Lily, frequently called the Fairy Lily … hahahahaha. Oh, how I loved THEM. And the playful squirrels. The hippety-hopping bunny Rabbits. And the ol' hooty-Owl, replacing the red Cardinals outside my window. We talked to each other frequently. Daisy the milk cow, Prince the white-starred, orange Chestnut horse, and Spunky and her daughter Sally, the short-haired, black-with-touches-of-brown Doberman Pinschers. So much I could tell about all of them, but I sense you twisting and turning, wanting to go to something else. Ah, well … such is life.

On with the story.

I was six and a half years old, and on Christmas Eve, 1946, we had been listening to Carols on the Zenith Console Radio standing on the hard-wood floor in the living room, the fireplace blazing away, and I was seated cross-legged on the oval braided rug not more than a foot away from the built-in radio speakers. Granddaddy was in his reddish-brown leather chair, and Grandmama wasn't quite finished cooking that heavenly smelling Christmas Eve dinner on her wood-burning stove, but she could, nevertheless, hear the radio, too. Occasionally, Granddaddy would put down his paper and stoke the logs in the fireplace.

The music stopped, and the announcer introduced a Mister Charles Tazewell who had just recently published a book by the title of "The Littlest Angel", a Christmas story about a four-and-a-half-year-old boy who had died and gone to Heaven.

Since my family was quite heavily involved with the church, the title of the story and the details we'd just heard about the main character, really got my attention.

And I share that story with you, right now. (He's been gone for almost thirty years, and I have no idea how to go about getting permission to share this with you. I just hope that no one will care that I've taken the liberty to share this little bit of Heaven with you.)

THE LITTLEST ANGEL

A short story by: CHARLES TAZEWELL (6/2/1900 – 6/26/1972)

Once upon a time — oh, many, many years ago as time is calculated by men — but which was only Yesterday in the Celestial Calendar of Heaven — there was, in Paradise, a most miserable, thoroughly unhappy, and utterly dejected cherub who was known throughout Heaven as The Littlest Angel.

He was exactly four years, six months, five days, seven hours, and forty-two minutes of age when he presented himself to the venerable Gate-Keeper and waited for admittance to the Glorious Kingdom of God.

Standing defiantly, with his short brown legs wide apart, the Littlest Angel tried to pretend that he wasn't at all impressed by such Unearthly Splendor, and that he wasn't at all afraid. But his lower lip trembled, and a tear disgraced him by making a new furrow down his already tear-streaked face — coming to a precipitous halt at the very tip end of his small freckled nose.

But that wasn't all. While the kindly Gate-Keeper was entering the name in his great Book, the Littlest Angel, having left home as usual without a handkerchief, endeavored to hide the tell-tale evidence by snuffling. A most unangelic sound which so unnerved the good Gate-Keeper that he did something he had never done before in all Eternity. He blotted the page!

From that moment on, the Heavenly Peace was never quite the same, and the Littlest Angel soon became the despair of all the Heavenly Host. His shrill, ear-splitting whistle resounded at all hours through the Golden Streets. It startled the Patriarch Prophets and disturbed their meditations. Yes, and on top of that, he inevitably and vociferously sang off-key at the singing practice of the Heavenly Choir, spoiling its ethereal effect.

And, being so small that it seemed to take him just twice as long as anyone else to get to nightly prayers, the Littlest Angel always arrived late, and always knocked everyone's wings askew as he darted into his place.

Although these flaws in behavior might have been overlooked, the general appearance of the Littlest Angel was even more disreputable than his deportment. It was first whispered among the Seraphim and Cherubim, and then said aloud among the Angels and Archangels, that he didn't even look like an angel!

And they were all quite correct. He didn't. His halo was permanently tarnished where he held onto it with one hot little chubby hand when he ran, and he was always running.

Furthermore, even when he stood very still, it never behaved as a halo should. It was always slipping down over his right eye. Over his left eye. Or else, just for pure meanness, slipping off the back of his head and rolling away down some Golden Street just so he'd have to chase after it!

Yes, and it must be here recorded that his wings were neither useful nor ornamental. All Paradise held its breath when the Littlest Angel perched himself like an unhappy fledgling sparrow on the very edge of a gilded cloud and prepared to take off. He would teeter this way — and that way — but, after much coaxing and a few false starts, he would shut both of his eyes, hold his freckled nose, count up to three hundred and three, and then hurl himself slowly into space!

However, owing to the regrettable fact that he always forgot to move his wings, the Littlest Angel always fell head over halo!

It was also reported, and never denied, that whenever he was nervous, which was most of the time, he bit his wing-tips! Now, anyone can easily understand why the Littlest Angel would, sooner or later, have to be disciplined.

And so, on an Eternal Day of an Eternal Month in the Year Eternal, he was directed to present his small self before an Angel of the Peace. The Littlest Angel combed his hair, dusted his wings and scrambled into an almost clean robe, and then, with a heavy heart, trudged his way to the place of judgment. He tried to postpone the dreaded ordeal by loitering along the Street of the Guardian Angels, pausing a few timeless moments to minutely pursue the long list of new arrivals, although all Heaven knew he couldn't read a word. And he idled more than several immortal moments to carefully examine a display of [golden] harps, although everyone in the Celestial City knew he couldn't tell a crotchet from a semiquaver — [a quarter note from a sixteenth note]. But at length and at last he slowly approached a doorway which was surmounted by a pair of golden scales, signifying that Heavenly Justice was dispensed within. To the Littlest Angel's great surprise, he heard a merry voice, singing!

The Littlest Angel removed his halo and breathed upon it heavily, then polished it upon his robe, a procedure which added nothing to that garment's already untidy appearance, and then tip-toed in!

The Singer, who was known as the Understanding Angel, looked down at the small culprit, and the Littlest Angel instantly tried to make himself invisible by the ingenious process of withdrawing his head into the collar of his robe, very much like a snapping turtle.

At that, the Singer laughed — a jolly, heartwarming sound — and said, "Oh! So you're the one who's been making Heaven so unheavenly! Come here, cherub, and tell me all about it!" The Littlest Angel ventured a furtive look from beneath his robe.

First, one eye. And then, the other eye. Suddenly, almost before he knew it, he was perched on the lap of the Understanding Angel, and was explaining how very difficult it was for a boy who suddenly finds himself transformed into an angel. Yes, and no matter what the Archangels said, he'd only swung once. Well, twice. Oh, all right, then, he'd swung three times on the Golden Gates. But that was just for something to do!

That was the whole trouble. There wasn't anything for a small angel to do. And he was very homesick. Oh, not that Paradise wasn't beautiful! But the Earth was beautiful too! Wasn't it created by God, Himself? Why, there were trees to climb, and brooks to fish, and caves to play at pirate chief, the swimming hole, and sun, and rain, and dark, and dawn, and thick brown dust, so soft and warm beneath your feet!

The Understanding Angel smiled, and in his eyes was a long forgotten memory of another small boy long ago. Then he asked the Littlest Angel what would make him most happy in Paradise. The cherub thought for a moment, and whispered in his ear.

"There's a box. I left it under my bed back home. If only I could have that?"

The Understanding Angel nodded his head. "You shall have it," he promised. And, fleet-winged Heavenly messenger was instantly dispatched to bring the box to Paradise.

And then, in all those timeless days that followed, everyone wondered at the great change in the Littlest Angel, for, among all the cherubs in God's Kingdom, he was the most happy. His conduct was above the slightest reproach. His appearance was all that the most fastidious could wish for. And on excursions to Elysian Fields, it could be said, and truly said, that he flew like an angel!

Then it came to pass that Jesus, the Son of God, was to be born of Mary, of Bethlehem, of Judea. And as the glorious tidings spread through Paradise, all the angels rejoiced and their voices were lifted to herald the Miracle of Miracles, the coming of the Christ Child.

The Angels and Archangels, the Seraphim and Cherubim, the Gate-Keeper, the Wingmaker, yes, and even the Halosmith put aside their usual tasks to prepare their gifts for the Blessed Infant. All but the Littlest Angel. He sat himself down on the topmost step of the Golden Stairs and anxiously waited for inspiration.

What could he give that would be most acceptable to the Son of God? At one time, he dreamed of composing a lyric hymn of adoration. But the Littlest Angel was woefully wanting in musical talent.

Then he grew tremendously excited over writing a prayer! A prayer that would live forever in the hearts of men, because it would be the first prayer ever to be heard by the Christ Child.

But the Littlest Angel was lamentably lacking in the literate skill. "What, oh what, could a small angel give that would please the Holy Infant?"

The time of the Miracle was very close at hand when the Littlest Angel at last decided on his gift. Then, on the Day of Days, he proudly brought it from its hiding place behind a cloud, and humbly, with downcast eyes, placed it before the Throne of God. It was only a small, rough, unsightly box, but inside were all those wonderful things that even a Child of God would treasure!

A small, rough, unsightly box, lying among all those other glorious gifts from all the angels of Paradise! Gifts of such rare and radiant splendor and breathless beauty that Heaven and all the Universes were lighted by the mere reflection of their glory!

And when the Littlest Angel saw this, he suddenly knew that his gift to God's Child was irreverent, and he devoutly wished he might reclaim his shabby gift. It was ugly. It was worthless. If only he could hide it away from the sight of God before it was even noticed!

But it was too late! The Hand of God moved slowly over all that bright array of shining gifts, then paused, then dropped, then came to rest on the lowly gift of the Littlest Angel!

The Littlest Angel trembled as the box was opened, and there before the Eyes of God and all His Heavenly Host, was what he offered to the Christ Child.

And what was his gift to the Blessed Infant? Well, there was a butterfly with golden wings, captured one bright summer day on the hills high above Jerusalem, and a sky-blue egg from a bird's nest in the olive tree that stood to shade his mother's kitchen door. Yes, and two white stones, found on a muddy river bank, where he and his friends had played like small brown beavers, and, at the bottom of the box, a limp, tooth-marked leather strap, once worn as a collar by his mongrel dog, who had died as he had lived, in absolute love and infinite devotion.

The Littlest Angel wept hot, bitter tears, for now he knew that instead of honoring the Son of God, he had been most blasphemous.

Why had he ever thought the box was so wonderful?

Why had he dreamed that such utterly useless things would be loved by the Blessed Infant?

In frantic terror, he turned to run and hide from the Divine Wrath of the Heavenly Father, but he stumbled and fell, and with a horrified wail and clatter of halo, rolled into a ball of consummate misery to the very foot of the Heavenly Throne!

There was an ominous and dreadful silence in the Celestial City, a silence — complete and undisturbed, save for the heartbroken sobbing of the Littlest Angel.

Then suddenly, the Voice of God, like Divine Music, rose and swelled through Paradise!

And the Voice of God spoke, saying, "Of all the gifts of all the angels, I find that this small box pleases Me most. Its contents are of the Earth and of men, and My Son is born to be King of both. These are the things My Son, too, will know and love and cherish, and then, regretfully, will leave behind Him when His task is done. I accept this gift in the Name of the Child, Jesus, born of Mary, this night, in Bethlehem."

There was a breathless pause, and then the rough, unsightly box of the Littlest Angel began to glow with a bright, unearthly light, then the light became a lustrous flame, and the flame became a radiant brilliance that blinded the eyes of all the angels!

None but the Littlest Angel saw it rise from its place before the Throne of God. And he, and only he, watched it arch the firmament to stand and shed its clear, white, beckoning light over a Stable where a Child was Born.

There it shone on that Night of Miracles, and its light was reflected down the centuries deep in the heart of all mankind. Yet, earthly eyes, blinded, too, by its splendor, could never know that the lowly gift of the Littlest Angel was what all men would call forever, "The Shining Star of Bethlehem!"

***

From Gerry Young again: "So what's this submission all about?" I hear you silently ask. Well, it IS a beautiful story, isn't it? We've heard, "Suffer the little children to come unto me," and we've heard, "Become as a little child…" There is so much joy and sweetness in a child's first exciting visit to Disneyland, or watching the heavens revolve in the city's Observatory, or discovering the steady underwater gait of the giant Orcas or the playful antics of the Seals and Dolphins while looking through the thick glass below the surface of the nearest seaquarium.

I heard Mister Tazewell's telling of "The Littlest Angel" and could visualize the whole tale in my childish imagination; it was all so very, very clear to me. Grandmama thought the story was lovely, and the day after Christmas, she went out and bought me my first book. You want to try to guess what it was? Well, I'll tell you … "The Littlest Angel". Yeah. I knew you knew the answer.

I was so happy continuing the joy of the Christmas spirit. I don't recall how many times I read it that year, but no matter how careful I was, the pages became smudged with splatters of peanut butter and jelly, with misty droplets from a childhood sneeze or two, with dirty thumb and finger prints from not washing my hands after hauling in a couple of armloads of firewood … in other words … very used by a six-to-seven-year-old boy. And for the next nine Christmases, my aunts and uncles and my little cousins would come "over the creeks and through the woods to Grandma's and Grandpa's house they'd come" [paraphrasing the traditional Thanksgiving song] for Christmas Eve dinner and the exchange of toy drums, and whistling paper-birds or butterflies on stringed sticks, and baby dolls and yo-yos and Jacks, and in a few later years, of tricycles and bicycles and roller skates and scooters, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Each of those joyous Christmases, sitting on the hearth in front of the roaring fireplace, I'd read "The Littlest Angel" once again. And once again I was rewarded with little sparkling eyes joyfully expressing that they knew exactly what I was reading about, and once more, the adults were smiling again, if not outright grinning at the reactions of the little ones.

And during all those years, another little story was building — only, it was building within my own mind.

Mister Tazewell's "Shining Star of Bethlehem" had been seen, by his words, and by me, as an unsightly box that became a lustrous flame that blinded the eyes of all the Angels, and then it arched it's brilliance across the sky and shone its radiance onto the blessed Stable wherein the Christ-child lay.

But I saw it a little differently. It wasn't just a "something"; it was a "somebody". Today, we talk about "Mother Earth" being a living, breathing Entity. For me, the "Shining Star of Bethlehem" developed into a living, breathing, thinking, talking Being. And when I was just a Junior in high school, for my Christmas project in English Composition, I wrote…

THE LEGEND OF THE STAR

A Very Short Story by: GERRY YOUNG (1940 - ????)

Somewhere in outer space a giant star was speeding, one which had never been seen on Earth. It was a lonely star.

'All I ever do is zoom through this nothingness of space. I don't have any purpose in being, and I never have anyone to look at me or watch me because I'm so far away from everything,' it thought to itself century after century. 'I'm just a no-good piece of hot, burning gas. I wonder if God did have a purpose in creating me?'

"Oh, Star," spake the holy voice of God through that nothingness, "I created you for a purpose, and you will fulfill that purpose soon. Be prepared. Be happy!"

The giant star dimmed his countenance while the Most High spoke, and afterwards asked, "Oh, Creator, what is my purpose?"

There was no answer, for God had spoken.

Gigantic thought, 'God said that I did have a purpose, but I wonder what it is? I dare not ask again, for if I should ask, He might disintegrate me, and I could not fulfill my purpose.'

So, Old Gigantic worried no more. He only turned up his countenance as bright as he could glow. He was happy!

***

'I've never been along this path before,' he thought; 'I must be going through a new galaxy.

Gigantic began to slow down in speed, and he became bothered, because he was not slowing down of his own accord.

"Be happy, Oh, Star!" came the holy voice of God.

Our Mr. Gigantic almost exploded, because he was so happy. "I shall be, Oh, Creator, I shall!" was his response to God. 'My purpose is about to be fulfilled, but what is it, I wonder? But I must be happy!' he thought as he came to a stop high above Earth.

One of his beams of light grew longer and longer until it touched a very small building in Bethlehem.

At the same moment there was uttered a cry from a new-born baby. Angels from Heaven were fluttering toward the place. One of them, a little angel, fluttered above Gigantic and said, "Thank you, Mr. Star, for showing the way. I didn't know exactly where He is!"

"Where who is?"

"Don't you know what has just happened?"

"No."

"The Christ-child was born only minutes ago, the Son of God, and I must hurry along now. Thank you again!"

Old Gigantic was so happy that he did not know what to do.

"Your purpose has been fulfilled, Oh, Star," spoke God.

"Oh, Almighty Creator, let me just shine a little longer for the Christ-child."

"You shall shine until the morrow."

"Thank you, O Creator, O, Father of the little one."

***

On the morrow, Mr. Gigantic was not to be seen. He was back in that nothingness, but now he is not murmuring. He is singing as loudly as he can, praises to God, his Creator

***

And so … not to negate the beauty of Mister Tazewell's wonderful, magnificent, beautiful little story that had stirred my very heart and soul for so many years, but I felt that I had given my own version of a more personal and loving "Star" to the story that has touched so many men, women, and children for the last two thousand years or so.

Each beloved Christmas season, I get the well-worn book down and read "The Littlest Angel" once more, and I become as thrilled anew as a little child. And each year, I read "The Legend of the Star", sometimes, with even more emotion than while I was first writing it. To me, they're both always fresh and new.

At seventy-one years, maybe I'm entering my second childhood. I know we can never go back to what it was like, when and where we grew up or had our most memorable experiences, but for me, the reactions from the reading of these two little stories gets better and better each year.

I hope you've enjoyed them, and on behalf of the Tickie Stories Pages, I un-apologizingly wish for each and every one of you…

A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS

AND A SAFE, HEALTHY, HAPPY, PROSPEROUS

HOLIDAY SEASON

(including)

CHANUKKAH, CHRISTMAS, KWANZAA, and NEW YEARS EVE.

And as Red Skelton used to sign off each program, I now repeat his words for us all:

"God Blesssssssssssssssssssssssssss."

Signed,

Gerry Young

Posted: 12/16/11