Storytime: Wreathed in Joy A couple of tiny pigeons with big hearts bring a little Christmas cheer to a deserving family.

Flying under the radar to spread Christmas cheer

Once upon a time, just outside a little village was a small farm. There was nothing really special about this farm; the family who lived there was one just like yours and mine. There was the farmer, his wife and their son and daughter. The farmer saw to it that the animals were fed and the barn was cleaned. The farmer’s wife took care of cooking the meals and keeping the house tidy. And every day the farmer’s children would go to school then do their daily chores. The son tended the vegetable garden and the daughter swept the porch.

As for the animals, there was the golden brown Jersey cow who gave the family their daily pail of milk. Then there were the chickens who laid the eggs for the family’s breakfast. Of course there were the sheep whose wool kept the family warm during the cold winter months.

Every animal did their part for the family. Every animal, it seemed, except for the pigeons in the coop. Apparently they did nothing. The other animals teased them. “What good are you?” All you do is fly around the farm and eat the food the farmer gives you. What do you do to help the farmer’s family?” And so the mockery went. Now, it was December and Christmas would soon arrive. While the family eagerly looked forward to the celebration, they were somewhat sad. Although the calendar said there were but a few days left until the Holy Day, the house looked the same as it did every other day of the year. How the family longed for some recognizable sign that this was indeed a special time of year!

The days went by. Each day the animals of the farm did what they had to do: give the milk, lay the eggs, produce the wool. The pigeons would fly in the sky directly above the farm, hovering overhead seemingly doing nothing. Occasionally, the pigeons would swoop down and pick up some small item with their tiny beaks—a stem from the red berries, a stray strand of baling or a few stems of dead, dry twigs. They’d then glide down over the porch of the farmhouse, until, it seemed, they lost interest in their treasure and dropped it on the porch.

Every day the farmer’s daughter would come home from school, change her clothes, grab the broom and sweep the porch. Every day she would find these bits of stems and strings. She’d pick up the items and drop them in the empty clay pot which was nestled in a dark corner of the porch.

The pigeons continued their mission of flying, collecting and dropping things for many days, and the farmer’s daughter, in turn, would sweep, gather and deposit the pigeons’ treasures in the clay pot.

On Christmas Eve, something very unusual happened. A quiet grey fog drifted in from the east. It settled gently on the quiet farm, much like a blanket covers a sleeping child. And just as a mother can silently enter her sleeping child’s room and tidy up the toys, so too, something or someone arrived that very night and took all the dried, dirty, seemingly useless findings of the pigeons and worked with them, weaving them ever so gently and lovingly into a beautiful Christmas wreath. The bright red berries shone and the stems curved in a graceful ring. The twine was like a ribbon decorating the wreath.

Finally, the wreath was finished. As soon as it was hung on a nail on the farmhouse door, the fog drifted away just as quietly as it had arrived.

When the family awoke Christmas morning, you can imagine their joy and surprise when they saw the beautiful wreath hanging on the door. “Who made it?” “Where did it come from?” “How did it get here?” Many questions and no answers. As the family stood looking in amazement at the wreath, the pigeons flew overhead. If you had been flying with them, I think you’d have seen the little pigeons wink at one another.