Growing up in Bountiful, I had the priviledge of living across the street from Brother Barry McKay, (pictured above as a young boy, back row, the second from the left). Brother McKay's family is extraordinay with extraordinary roots. He is the nephew of the late prophet, David O. McKay. Barry's wife, is a great writer and has beautifully written the following tale- my favorite Christmas story, The Widow's Might*. This story is about Barry's incredible mother, Elizabeth "Bessie" McKay. I hope you will find this account of her strength as inspiring as I do.
The Widow’s Might - by Elaine S. McKay Bessie watched the wind hurl snow as it howled through Huntsville, Utah. It’s a cold Christmas Eve, she thought, colder than those of the Depression . . . colder now that her husband was dead.
Before the fire had flickered out, Bessie had heated the iron and made her way up the winding stairs of the stone home to iron the sheets before her eight children climbed into their beds.
“Warmmm,” purred the baby as she snuggled in her crib. Even Bessie’s sixteen-year-old son chuckled and sighed as his feet found where the iron had been. The children were noisily unaware that the iron was heated by bits of slack coal from a supply that wouldn’t last the winter. Nor had they ever noticed that the smiling woman who pressed the sheets wore patched dresses and was somehow never hungry.
The next morning Bessie would build the fire while the four boys went out to feed and milk old Sally, the only animal not sold to pay debts. The little girls would wait in the kitchen until chores were done. Then all would line up—smallest to tallest—and, at the sound of Bessie’s first notes on the piano, would march and sing their way in to the tree . . . “O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant . . .”
They had cut the tree themselves and trimmed it with paper chains and popcorn. But there was nothing under it, and Bessie had little to put there. Someone had sent her a few oranges and nuts. That was enough, she knew, to cause shouts of delight. But, as she sat looking out at the half-buried village, the old question returned, “What can I give my children for Christmas?” After a moment she saw the answer.
In the morning when songs were sung and oranges eaten, Bessie said, “Today, because it’s Christmas Day, we’re going to do something special. We are going to take gifts to a family who is poor. The house grew quiet. Poor was a word they shunned.
Then Bessie, her eyes shining, explained that many people in the world had very little and since they themselves had so much it was only right that they share. They could look through their possessions and find a gift—a hair ribbon, a book, some clothes. . . . “And I’ll make apple pies,” she beamed.
When the pies were cooled, Bessie placed two in a basket where the children had put their gifts. She covered all with a bright cloth. At last everything was ready. Then above the excited chatter, a boy’s voice demanded, “Mother, why are we doing this when we don’t have enough for ourselves?”
There. Someone had said it. The smiles vanished. Even the baby was silent.
“What we have is enough,” Bessie said softly, “and what we are giving is small. We are keeping the precious things . . . our testimonies of the Gospel, this great stone house built by your grandfather, our love for one another, happy memories of what has been, hope for good things that are to come. . . . All this is ours to keep. These few gifts we have gathered are ours to share. Come, my son, you may carry the basket.”
Christmas night was cold, and Bessie again ironed the sheets. Amid the clamor of getting ready for bed, she felt a sense of peace and assurance. She could not know that one of her sons would become a United States Congressman and one, a United States Federal Judge; that there would be two Mission Presidents and a Visitors’ Center Director; that three sons would serve as Bishops and the other one as a Stake President; that all four of her little girls would someday be called as a Relief Society President and one as a Mission Mother. She could not know that all of her sons would fulfill missions, that all would serve in the armed services protecting freedom around the world. She could not visualize the twelve college degrees, the scholarships, trophies, and awards that would accumulate. Nor could she know for sure that each would marry in the Temple. She could not foresee the shared planning, pennies, and prayers that would cause it all to happen. And later that evening as she watched the last ember die in the old stove and felt the house grow cold, she little knew that in twenty-seven years she would be named Utah’s Mother of the Year.
Bessie knew only that she had given her children something for Christmas that they could never lose. Years from now on a cold winter night when they were far from home, they would find it, small and sacred, in their hearts. And there would be other things she could give to them as days and months went by—little things—like warmed sheets.
*
First published in The Relief Society Magazine, December 1970, pp 898-99, “The Widow’s Might,” was written by Elaine S. McKay as a tribute to Elizabeth “Bessie” McKay.
