By Ron Weekes

REXBURG—Growing up in my hometown of Stockton, California, our family had traditions around the Christmas holiday. My Dad always made sure that we had colorful lights placed around the eves of our home’s roof. My Mom’s request was to have the Christmas tree flocked in white.

The big Christmas Eve event for us was to pile in the car and drive around and look at the various decorations and colorful lights that folks would put on the outsides of their homes. Then it was a mad dash back to the house to see if Santa had come. If he hadn’t, it was back into the car, minus Mom and Grandma, to drive all the way across town to Cooper’s Donuts on Wilson Way where we would buy some donuts to bring back home for a Christmas Eve snack.

When we returned from the unnecessarily long cross-town excursion, Santa had finally arrived. My siblings and I were ecstatic and could not wait to start opening the presents found under the Christmas tree.

Just like the family of my childhood, I’m sure you have fond memories of those Christmases of years gone by. When I married my wife Jacque, we continued the Christmas Eve lights tour and added a tradition from her family, a Christmas Eve buffet. As our little family grew we added a tradition of our own: fresh squeezed orange juice on Christmas morning. I don’t recall when we started it, but it continues to this day.

As a youngster, there was one item for years that I begged my parents to get me for Christmas. A shiny red hook and ladder fire truck that had rubber fire hoses that actually squirted water. The requested fire truck never did find its way under the tree, but one Christmas, as a young twenty-year-old missionary, I finally understood the true meaning of Christmas. That it truly is better to give than receive. There was no longer a need in my life for that shiny red fire truck.

In early May of 1973 I entered the Language Training Mission (LTM) on the southern edge of the Brigham Young University campus in Provo to learn Spanish. Many students who come to Rexburg to attend Brigham Young University-Idaho don’t know that there was also a LTM here on the campus of Ricks College. Located in what is now the club house of University Courtyard apartments, the Scandinavian languages were taught here.

After eight weeks of intense immersion into the Spanish language, I wondered what language I was really taught back in Provo since what I was hearing on the buses on my first full day as a missionary in Cuernavaca, Morelos certainly wasn’t Spanish. One of our teachers in Provo suggested we carry a little notebook in our shirt pocket. Every time we heard a word repeated numerous times while riding buses from appointment to appointment, we were to do our best at writing those words down in our notebook, then look them up when we got back home for the evening.

The only problem was that I couldn’t find the words in my dictionary. With a perplexed look on my face, I approached my senior companion and asked him if he could help me with my list of new-found words. He glanced at the list, looked back at me, and started laughing very loudly.

When he was able to contain himself he looked at me again and said, “Elder Weekes, you need to sit down.” My companion went on to explain to me that the reason I couldn’t find any of the words I had written down in my notebook was because they were very common curse words, words that a green Mormon Elder would not use in day to day conversation or any conversation for that matter!

My time as a junior companion lasted a few months, then it was my turn to train a new green Elder. After spending approximately a year in Mexico City, I was transferred into the Bajio, the rich agricultural region of Mexico a couple hours by bus ride north of Mexico City. Then one of my missionary dreams came true. No, it wasn’t a shiny red fire truck, but I was transferred to Guadalajara, Jalisco.

Guadalajara was very, and still is, cosmopolitan. There was even an English-speaking branch for American students attending the Medical University there. As luck would have it, my companion and I were assigned to the English-speaking branch, as well as two Spanish-speaking branches.

We also found out there was a small dependent branch about two hours to the southeast that our district of elders was in charge of. This little branch was in a small village called Tizapan el Alto. It was located on the southern shores of Lago Chapala. Since Tizapan didn’t have a chapel, all baptisms were held in the lake.

I was transferred to Guadalajara sometime before Thanksgiving. A few members of the English-speaking branch were upset with us because we just didn’t show up for Thanksgiving dinner. We probably should have, since the traditional Thanksgiving dinner that we had at a local Chinese restaurant was terrible. Not only was the food terrible, but so was the service. Even though we did the polite thing and left a tip, the proprietor of the restaurant wasn’t happy with the size of the tip that we left.

With Thanksgiving behind us, as a district we thought about whether we might bring the Christmas spirit to a family who might need it. Someone mentioned the small branch in Tizapan. We talked and thought it would be a great idea to prepare a Christmas program for them.

Arrangements were made and it was decided that the entire district would travel to Tizapan and present the branch with a Christmas Eve program. Only one BIG problem…Santa! Who was going to play Santa’s helper? I asked if these little ones knew who Santa was let alone ever seen one of his helpers. Someone mentioned that so-and-so in the English-speaking branch had a Santa suit. When we went to pick it up we found out that it was made for a tall, slender person. All eyes turned toward me. Yes, back then I was a tall, slender fellow. So yours truly was elected to appear at the Christmas program as Santa’s helper.

When the appointed hour arrived, I snuck into a room at the house where we were having the program, put on the Santa suit, stuffed a pillow or two under my shiny red coat, took my glasses off (I didn’t want the kids to recognize me), and proceeded to join the party with as hearty a “Ho, Ho, Ho” as I could muster.

I will never forget the look on one young boy who looked up at all six foot three of me and gazed in amazement. I knew this was the first time that he and his friends at the party had ever seen a real-live Santa. It was at that moment that all the years of hearing that it is greater to give than to receive finally sunk in. All the shiny red fire trucks in the world could not have made such an impact on me as bringing a few moments of joy to a small branch of the church in a very small village in Mexico. A branch that is now its own stake in the church.

As we traveled back to Guadalajara on the bus, tired yet elated and filled with the true joy that serving others brings to each of us, we related the events of the evening to each other until we could no longer keep our eyes open. It was like we had been transported back in time to our various childhoods, doing our best to keep our eyes open so we could get a glimpse of Santa placing presents under the tree.

I took one glimpse back as Tizapan continued to disappear in the December darkness, hearing those famous words echoing in my heart and in my mind:

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!