He was born in an obscure village
The child of a peasant woman,
He grew up in another obscure village
Where he worked in a carpenter shop
Until he was thirty.
He never wrote a book,
He never held an office,
He never went to college, or owned a house.
He never visited a big city,
In fact, he never travelled more than
two hundred miles from the place where he was born.
He did none of the things
Usually associated with greatness;
He had no credentials but himself.
He was only thirty three when the
Tide of public opinion turned against him.
His friends ran away
One of them even denied him.
He was turned over to his enemies,
And went through the mockery of a trial.
He was nailed to a cross between two thieves.
While dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing,
The only property he had on earth.
When he was dead
He was laid in a borrowed grave
Through the pity of a friend.
Nineteen centuries have come and gone;
And today he is still the central figure of the human race, and our perfect example in all things.
All the armies that have ever marched,
All the navies that have ever sailed,
All the parliaments that have ever sat,
All the kings that ever reigned, put together,
Have not affected the life of man on this earth
As much as this one solitary life.
When I was little, my mother listened to Paul Harvey on the radio.
Every year on about the 23rd or 24th of December, he would read a favorite story or essay about Christmas. Mom would stop what she was doing and listen intently. One Solitary Life became one of our favorites.
As hard as it is for me to believe, I’m now the mom — and I’m running out of time! As I look at my yet incomplete list of
to-dos, I’m thankful for reminders like this.
Christmas will come in
48 hours regardless of how much more I get done — and what my
children will ultimately remember, is how I treated them, how patient
and kind I was — how well I lived the things I taught them about the
true meaning of this holiday.