We are so glad people are sending us things for our men for Christmas. Oh, they need them so badly, the poor, poor things, and we want them to have a wonderful Christmas, and they are sure to. For many of our friends are sending us things or money for them. The underwear I have heard from, from Paris, and it ought to arrive soon. The Outlook has begun to come and is fine. We shall enjoy that tremendously, for it condenses things for us in a way we need. I could use some more bed-socks, high ones. We have to wear them in bed, and I find that by putting the pajama leg inside the sock, my legs and feet are very comfortable. I’d like them to come nearly to the knees; any color will do.
We were so glad to know about your service flag. I wish we could have a picture of it, as we don’t know what it is like. The cold cream you sent I wanted very much. I have to use quantities of it to keep from chapping, and we can’t get any glycerine over here. Some of my nurses have such dreadfully chilblained hands and feet, and they are so painful.
D.’s letters are very interesting. Please thank her for them. I just can’t write and answer them all. You’ve no idea how many strangers I have to write to,—in the States, I mean,—answering questions and acknowledging gifts; but I just love to get the letters from the girls; I can’t write them often. I’m snowed under now with letters that need to be answered.
You must think of us over here as having one of the happiest Christmases possible. Our work is pitiful, but we are at peace in our hearts and very happy to be here. I never felt so at peace and quiet in my mind. We have a very big and vital work to do right here and that is enough, and we are blessed beyond all words to be here and able to do it.
I believe there is more real peace on earth in men’s and women’s hearts now in the midst of this world turmoil than has ever been known before. No one should be sorry for us, for any of us who are here in connection with the army. You can’t be sorry enough for the wounded and sick, but most of them too are very peaceful, undisturbed, and unafraid. Oh I wish I could tell you what all this is meaning, as I see it. Maybe some day I can, for every day I am seeing things more clearly, but as yet I can’t write it all down,—after a while perhaps. We talk about it, from time to time, some of us, every once in a while, and oh, dear people, no greater thing can ever come into any one’s life than this chance of ours,—to get away from little things and self and to know what the things of the Spirit are, and what true values really are.
A happy Christmas to you all and oh, so much love. I can’t bear to stop writing when I think that this will reach you at Christmas time. (Phil is going to Paris to-morrow and may not be back by Christmas.) But together or apart, we’ll be thinking of you all and praying to God to spare you till we can see you again. But if it can’t be that way, it won’t matter so much, for if any one of you goes on before, you will be just so much nearer to us, for you will understand the end from the beginning and be content as you watch how we fight our fight, and we’ll feel your nearness and get strength and comfort from it, and there won’t be anything but complete love and understanding between us. It is going to be a long time before we come home, but it doesn’t matter, miles make no difference. You are wonderful, and we, of course, must be wonderful too.
I believe this will be one of your happiest Christmases, as it is ours.
Good-night, good-night, dear ones,
Julia.
Dec. 15, 1917.