Christmas I remember best: Humble cabbage is a gift of hope

For many years my dad was the bishop of the Spanish Fork 3rd Ward. Every Christmas Eve it was customary for bishops to take a gift to the poor families in their wards. There were a lot of poor people in our ward, so my mother and father would spend most of Christmas Eve delivering gifts to those members.

One year my dad asked me to go with him to deliver the packages. I told him I didn't want to go. There were many other activities I looked forward to on Christmas Eve. Dad persisted and said he needed me to go because this Christmas he was taking cabbages to the families. Then I knew I didn't want to go. I was so embarrassed to think he was giving them something as plain and boring as a dull, green cabbage.

Furthermore, I knew the children in the ward, and I would be humiliated to give them a cabbage. I thought we should take a striped candy or a frosted cake. But a plain, old cabbage?

Mother had packaged some apples and a few sweets in bright red paper to accompany the cabbage. Since Dad insisted I was to go with him, I devised a plan. I'd make him carry the cabbage to the door of each family, and I would hand them the sweets that Mother had packed.

One of our ward members was living in a run-down chicken coop. This family had many children, including a daughter my age, and they were the poorest in the ward. At this house, Father told me I was going to carry the cabbage. I begged him to let me carry the sweets. He insisted; I was to carry the cabbage.

I was so ashamed to give a family who needed so much nothing but an insignificant cabbage. There would be no toys, turkey or candy at this home — only the small cabbage I clutched to my chest while wishing I could disappear just like the forgetful Santa Claus who seems to miss the most needy.

As the door cracked open, my hands trembled as I thrust the cabbage toward a tired woman in a thin, cotton dress who was trying to quiet a crying baby. Then, I closed my eyes because I did not want to see the tears running down her cheeks. She cried and repeatedly thanked us for the Christmas miracle. Now, she said, their family would have something to eat for Christmas dinner.

Only then was I able to open my eyes and realize that as small as that cabbage was, it was a miracle to this poor family.

Often times when we think our efforts are insignificant, they are really a life-sustaining miracle. We delivered more than cabbage that evening. We delivered hope. We gave those families what they needed most: the assurance that someone, somewhere was aware of their struggles and was ready to stretch forth a helping hand — even one holding a small cabbage.