The Story of Ten Apples
By Linda Kasdorf Klippenstein
In the late 1920s, my mother and her family moved to a part of eastern Russia where only ten miles and the Amur River separated them from China. Communism was advancing and the people of her village had to make the life-or-death decision to flee Russia on the very cold winter night of December 30, 1929. The entire village had to leave behind the majority of their possessions to avoid drawing attention to their planned escape. 62 horse-drawn sleds loaded with bare necessities crossed the frozen river during the night. The villagers, frozen to the core, reached safety in China just before dawn the next morning.
It was a time of famine and hardship, and they experienced God’s faithfulness. The assistance provided by MCC was God’s provision to help them survive. My grandmother often suppressed her own hunger while giving her last morsels of food to her ten hungry children. This strong, determined, and caring mother looked like an old woman at the time of her death at age 57.
Through the years, there were no Christmas presents. One Christmas, however, my grandfather managed to buy one apple for each of his children. The children shouted with glee. They all gulped their apple down, with the exception of one child. My mother took one calculated bite per day to make the apple last longer.
To this day, I have ten little apples hanging on our Christmas tree in thanksgiving to God—and to remind me where I came from. The tradition has passed on to my daughter, who also hangs ten little apples from her tree, and she tells the story to our young grandchildren.
In Memory of Dad (John J. Neufeld)
By Ruth Neufeld
Dad would always make Christmas special, like it should be. One Christmas, he carved wooden semi-trucks for each of the 12 grandsons, and before he passed on he was in the process of making each of us children a cedar chess set. He would give each of us a portion of money so we could buy something special that we needed. He even made each of his seven children a grandfather clock.
He and Mom encouraged each of us so much to fulfill our dreams. They prayed every night that we would experience Jesus as our personal saviour and that we would follow Him.
Mom misses you so much, Dad… and so do we. I never really got to say goodbye. I’ll always treasure the kiss I gave you the last weekend my boys and I had with you. So this is my goodbye by writing this memory of you. Thanks for being our dad. We appreciate you!
The Fondue Fire
By Ray Dowse
I am very fortunate to have married into a wonderful family 13 years ago, who have some great Christmas traditions. One tradition in particular takes place every Christmas Eve—the family fondue! Everyone preps for weeks and days leading up to it.
The fondue of Christmas Eve 2013 was particularly memorable. Because this type of dinner is a long process, the fondue burners run out of fuel and require a top-up halfway through the meal. The flame in the pot in front of Papa dwindled and eventually burnt out, so I moved the empty burner from under the pot to an open spot on the table and poured new fluid into it, with Papa waiting to light it. Just as I finished my pour and the flow began to slow from the bottle, Papa lit the burner… however, the flame travelled from the burner up to the bottle in my hand with incredible speed. Startled, I jerked my hand away, causing fluid in the mostly full bottle to spill over the table—and unfortunately onto both Papa and me.
At that point, things got a little hairy. In an instant, the dinner table, Papa, and I were all on fire. I remember standing there with the front of my shirt in flames, using my free arm to pat out the fire on my chest, all the while holding the bottle in the other hand that was burning like an Olympic torch.
All I did was spread the fuel and fire on my shirt, and after three or four swipes I needed to take further action. Like Hulk Hogan in a vintage WWE wrestling match, I grabbed each side of my button-up shirt and tore the flaming garment off my body, the front buttons flying off like popcorn kernels in an overheated air popper. The shirt hit the floor in a pile and the flame was quickly put out. But now we had another issue: tearing off my shirt required both hands, and in the process I tossed the fuel bottle behind me. In an instant, the carpet burst into flames.
At this point, we have Papa on fire, the dining room table on fire, and the carpet on fire—not exactly the relaxing evening of fellowship we would typically expect on Christmas Eve. But the quick-thinking family used water and blankets to douse the flames in short order, and the fire was put out.
As smoke lingered in the air, everyone was present except our two children, who were four and five at the time. After a quick search, we noticed the front door to the house was wide open. Like Usain Bolt, the kids had dashed up the stairs and out the door. Great to see those teachings from Uncle Keith [Bueckert] over the years had made an impression on them!
Once the adrenaline subsided, we cleaned up and finished our fondue with only a few minor casualties to speak of—a tablecloth, two shirts, one eyebrow (thankfully Papa grew a new one), and a melted section of carpet which remains to this day.
