Billowing whiteness greets us and glistens under wide winter heavens, star-studded with promise to chase away the dark. Each intricately petaled snowflake is food for rambling thought and fancy; pieced together, they make a downy coverlet that wraps us with anticipation.
Above this scene, a sliver of divinity crowns the night sky, spikes mounds of snow with intoxicating moonshine and then, satisfied, preens itself in the mirrored skin of a crystal mountain lake. And, all the while, stellar luminaries capture this pristine image in a series of freeze-framed moments—an album of memories to treasure.
Even as it scours the warmth from our days, winter plies us with tender gestures—if we seek them. As Henry David Thoreau once said,“The question is not what you look at, but what you see.”
What do we choose to see in winter? Icy porches, slushy sidewalks, a drive to shovel? Or is our vision filled with eye-catching “still lifes” and Currier-and-Ives vistas?
How do we let wonder weave its way into our thoughts? How do we convince it to replace indifference,detachment and apathy?
It’s simple. Watch a small child. Spend time with a child. Take a child’s hand in yours, walk through the fabled gate. . .and witness the miracle of discovery and endless possibilities.
A child sees a skating rink on every icy porch.
A child sees puddle possibilities in every slushy sidewalk.
A child sees snow angels to create, snow forts to construct, snowballs to roll and snowmen to build in every uncleared driveway.
Children are excitement seekers. They gravitate toward surprise, amazement, awe and astonishment. An air of expectancy swirls around them like hot chocolate. They hope. They marvel. They share a powerful belief that miracles happen. They live with a broader sense of wonder. They point out the beauty, the opportunities and the experiences we might otherwise miss.
At this yuletide season, perhaps more than any other, we can inhale the innocence of youth. We can see Christmas—and the world—through different eyes. We can seek out this treasure worth preserving. We can learn the virtue of wonder and rehearse it until it sings through our veins.
And we can do it by becoming more childlike. Recall the old poem,“Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight; make me a child again just for tonight”(Elizabeth Akers Allen).Take it to heart.
Let yourself be surprised. Don’t be reluctant to express admiration or to exclaim in delight. Show enthusiasm. Practice joy. Spread ardor. Above all, look for magic and hope for miracles this Christmas. You’ll find them on the wispy wings of wonder . . . just beyond the garden gate.
A Place of Honor
“Package for you, ma’am.”
The postman left a plain box. It bore no printing, no hint as to the contents. Our overwhelming urge to shake the box produced only a slight shift in the load. Carefully cutting around the top, we removed the lid and peered inside.
With a questioning look on his face, my husband slowly unpacked six chubby figures and stood them on the table. When he placed a small, triangular bundle at their feet, I couldn’t suppress a broad grin. Black, beady eyes, looking slightly myopic and a bit crossed, stared at us from under snatches of acrylic hair. With no noticeable change in their expressions, they stood quietly awaiting our inspection and approval.
Some months earlier I had mentioned to our daughter Kaye Lynn my desire to have a set of heavy-duty, childproof nativity dolls for our grandchildren to enjoy. I wanted peace of mind when inquisitive little fingers felt a need to hold or examine one.
I also thought their own private collection would distract them from the stunning crèche ensemble I hoped to acquire. I dreamed of a lavish array of ceramic or porcelain, perhaps even crystal, to occupy a place of honor in our home—a spot where Mary and Joseph could display their precious babe undisturbed. Each piece would stand amid ripples of gold lamé fabric, the bright glow of carefully directed lights reflecting off polished surfaces.
My husband and I giggled as we examined each little guest. A more comical group of adoring subjects I had never imagined! They had been crafted with a wild sense of humor and a practical streak as well. For instance, contrary to popular belief, a blonde Mary wore crisp, pink-and-white gingham—easy to launder, cool in a desert climate and ultrafeminine. Joseph, on the other hand, appeared dapper in his brown plaid—ideal for traveling the dusty roads of Judea. His flowing auburn hair and full beard lent an air of sophistication.
I imagined an audible sigh of relief as we unfurled the angel’s white felt wings that had been tucked tightly around her body. Her embroidered eyes were stitched closed, either in reverence or perhaps fatigue after her busy night proclaiming the wondrous news. And baby Jesus slept through it all, an odd little three-inch package swaddled in blue felt, glued atop a pile of old-fashioned excelsior packing.
There were no shepherds. No doubt they left early, anxious to spread the joyous word; besides, they had sheep to tend. Robed in plush fabric, three wise men wore identical silver hats. No knees bent in adoration; their fat little bodies were not designed for that.
The unexpected gift became a cherished possession.
Our grandchildren love those little people. Each doll has been hugged and kissed and taken on walking tours throughout the house. Secrets have been whispered and bruised feelings healed as they rocked together.
Baby Jesus has enjoyed many a quiet nap under the sofa, in a drawer or on someone’s bed. Joseph never complains when his long hair is brushed and braided, parted and ponytailed as little girls practice their tonsorial skills. To our delight, one of the grandchildren recently dubbed the wise men “those three old guys in the shower caps.”
The dolls survive all this affection remarkably well. Their wire arms assume astonishing positions, but they’re still flexible. The excelsior hay dried and broke off, but a handful of pale yarn works just fine—and baby Jesus slept right through the regluing. The angel’s droopy wings need to be replaced with new white felt. At this rate, the set will be in fine shape for our great-grandchildren.
And my burning desire for an impressive crèche subsided. Our daughter Barbara displayed hers atop the piano while they lived with us—gold lamé, bright lights and all. When she moved, she not only took her porcelain figurines, but five grandchildren and the piano as well.
We were left with only our little stuffed dolls, and it was okay.
Recently, the delivery service left another brown cardboard box. It was huge and much too big to shake. How exciting to remove packing by the yard, boxes inside boxes, with Bubble-Pak® and cotton batting stuffed everywhere.
This time we unwrapped ceramic sheep and shepherds, cows and camels, donkeys and wise men (some of which are kneeling), and the holy family. Kaye Lynn had hand-painted them all, and they are beautiful.
Now, I must give some thought as to where I can best display the cast and characters of my new crèche. I want them to represent the peace of the season and the richness of its message—but with a bit of flair. And I also want them to be safe from curious little fingers. Which location will I designate as the “place of honor”?
On second thought, maybe that spot has already been chosen.
Is there a lovelier place than in the chubby arms of a child? Can gold lamé shine as brightly as the eyes of a toddler as he sings to his “baby”—even if it is a wise man? Do spotlights and crystal compare to the light of Christmas shining in the face of innocence as a granddaughter and Mary share a moment in deep discussion about parenting skills?
Those first fat, little dolls with their fake hair and poor eyesight have been in the place of honor all this time, and I never realized it.
Now if I can just remember to buy some new white felt!
Mary Kerr Danielson
The Lone Caroler
The mall’s parking garage was so packed that we had to drive around and around, up and down several levels, before we found a space. Of course, I should have expected as much. After all, this was the week before Christmas at the bu
siest shopping mall in the county.
Jumping out of the car, I held tight to my purse in one hand and my shopping list in the other. Screeching brakes, tooting horns, shouting customers, banging trunk lids, gunning motors, blaring loudspeaker music—what clamor! I could hardly think. And I certainly needed to think straight to plan my mad dashes from store to store. So much to do and so little time in which to do it.
As I rushed to the garage elevator, somehow through all that noise I heard a strange chrrr, chrrr. It almost had a rhythm to it. But where was the sound coming from?
Looking up, I saw a hole in the garage wall. Nestled inside was a small brown bird, shaped like a chickadee, but more sparrowlike in color. In fact, contrasted against all the red and green and gold of the season, the bird was absolutely dull and ordinary. To look at, that is, but not to listen to. The tiny creature was singing its heart out.
Chrrr, chrrr . . .
There, among the jarring sounds of racing cars and people, I realized it was responding to music on the loudspeaker. A Christmas carol? Why, yes—“Silent Night.”
Though I was very close to him now, he didn’t try to fly, but kept pouring out his heart with complete abandon. Perfect in rhythm and pitch, he syncopated each measure of the three-quarter-time melody, coming in only on the last two beats. As in, “Si- (chrrr, chrrr), night (chrrr, chrrr), ho- (chrrr, chrrr), night (chrrr, chrrr).” Almost calypso style.
I didn’t recognize his species. Many kinds of birds winter here in Southern California, and I’m not a “birder.” But in the crowded parking garage that day, he alone took time to rejoice in and praise the reason for the season.
So I stopped and joined him.
He didn’t seem to mind the cars whizzing by us or that my voice was cracked and weak and off-key. Never had “sleep in heavenly peace” seemed so out of place; it was neither night nor silent.
Only when the carol ended did we both hurry off to our respective duties. But as I headed into the jam-packed mall, I, too, had wings. And a glowing smile. “Christ our savior is born.” Hallelujah!
Bonnie Compton Hanson
The Right Touch
It was four days before Christmas and the town sat still, as if Old Man Winter had forgotten the snow everyone was wishing for.
Grandpa and I worked at the department store where he asked kids what they wanted for Christmas while I distributed candy canes and small presents. Grandpa’s beard was real, bushy and full. Some of the kids who tugged it were quite surprised. And when he ho ho–ed, his stomach shook. Grandpa was Santa Claus, no question.
Most of the lap-sitters were under ten. They were pretty much alike, asking for bikes, dolls, radios and games. But one little girl was different. Her mother led her up, and Grandpa hoisted her onto his lap. Her name was Tina. She was blind.
“What do you want for Christmas, Tina?” Grandpa asked.
“Snow,” she answered shyly.
Grandpa smiled. His eyes twinkled. “Well, I’ll see what I can do about that. But how about something just for you? Something special?”
Tina hesitated and whispered in Grandpa’s ear. I saw a smile creep over his face.
“Sure, Tina,” was all he said.
He took her hands in his and placed them on his cheeks. His eyes drifted shut, and he sat there smiling as the girl began to sculpt his face with her fingers. She paused here and there to linger, paying close attention to every wrinkle and whisker. Her fingers seemed to be memorizing the laugh lines under Grandpa’s eyes and at the corners of his mouth. She stroked his beard and rolled its wiry ringlets between her thumbs and forefingers. When she finished, she paused to rest her palms on Grandpa’s shoulders.
He opened his eyes. They were twinkling.
Suddenly her arms flew out, encircling Grandpa’s neck in a crushing hug. “Oh, Santa,” she cried. “You look just like I knew you did. You’re perfect, just perfect.”
As Tina’s mother lifted her down from his lap, Grandpa smiled, then blinked, and a tear rolled down his cheek.
That night when my grandmother came to pick us up, I watched her help Grandpa transfer into his wheelchair and position his limp legs on the footrests. “So, Santa,” she winked, “how was your day?”
He looked up at me and pressed his lips together. Then he looked at Grandma, cleared his throat, and said with a tiny smile, “Sweetheart, it was perfect, just perfect.”
Outside it began to snow.
Steve Burt
Christmas Derailed
Boxes, ribbons and wrappings cluttered the entire room, evidence of a rowdy but generous Christmas morning for five-year-old Christopher and his three-year-old brother, David. But Christopher was far too withdrawn and quiet for a little boy who had just received his first electric train set. A bit concerned, I kept watch from the corner of my maternal eye while I scrambled eggs, maintained a running conversation with Grandma and periodically hauled Blossom, our bumbling sheepdog, away from the now listing tree.
What could be wrong? I wondered. Tummy ache? Christopher wasn’t complaining. Disappointment? Not likely, considering his ecstatic response when he saw the train set. Annoyed by the toddling interference of his little brother? No, David played across the room, chattering incessantly to his grandpa and daddy.
Yet I knew a mysterious, dark cloud hung over Christopher’s mood this Christmas morning and carved a furrow of deep thought across his forehead. What in the world was making him so sad and dejected? Unable to find a moment alone with him in all the holiday chaos, I worried as he periodically retreated to his room, only to reappear with the same gloomy look.
When the breakfast dishes were finally put away, and the rest of the family had settled into the quiet hum of conversation and coffee, I took my cup of tea and slid to the floor next to Christopher, where he distractedly spun a wheel on one of his new trucks.
“Hey, honey,” I whispered quietly in his ear, “I noticed that you seem a little sad this morning. What’s wrong?”
“Well, Mommy,” he said in a melancholy little voice, “remember that ring I got in the gumball machine? I gave it to the Tooth Fairy for Christmas.”
Oh no, I groaned inwardly.
“How did you do that?” I asked, with a foreboding sense of what I was about to hear.
“Oh, I put it under my pillow where she always looks. But she didn’t take it. I been checking all morning, and it’s still there. And I really wanted to give her a present. How come she didn’t want it?” he asked plaintively, looking up at me for an answer.
Rejected by the Tooth Fairy! How could she have been so thoughtless? And how could I explain without completely deflating the faith and kind heart of this little boy?
“Hmmm,” I stalled. “Do you think she’s busy collecting teeth this morning? Maybe she’ll come later.”
He considered the possibility thoughtfully, but shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. She comes at night when kids are asleep.”
I had to make this right. But how? Moments passed while I groped for another idea—any idea. Then, quite unexpectedly, Christopher’s entire being erupted with eureka joy.
“Mommy, I bet I know why she didn’t take it!” he blurted. “I bet she’s Jewish!” And with that resolved, off he ran, smiling broadly, to engineer his new electric train.
Armené Humber
Troubled
A song sung by Faith Hill in the blockbuster movie The Grinch asks: “Where are you, Christmas? Why can’t I find you?” Well, sometimes the Christmas spirit is like a misplaced sock—you find it when you aren’t looking and where you’d least expect it to show up.
I found it at a quarter past one in the morning.
On my way home from work, I stopped at the neighborhood doughnut shop. After parking in its ghost town of a parking lot, I was headed toward the door when I spotted trouble.
What lit a warning light on my intuition radar was a group of teenagers—three boys and a girl. Understand, I wasn’t alarmed by their tattoos (the girl include
d) or their earrings (boys included—eyebrows as well as each of their ears). Rather, it was the extremely late hour and the fact they loitered on the sidewalk in a semicircle around an elderly man sitting in a chair. Wearing a tattered flannel shirt and barefoot, the man looked positively cold and probably homeless.
And in trouble with a capital T.
Against my better judgment, I went inside the store and ordered three doughnuts—while keeping a worried eye on the group outside. Nothing seemed to be happening.
Until I headed toward my car.
Something was indeed “going down.” As ominously as a pirate ordering a prisoner to the plank, the teens told the old man to stand up and walk.
Oh, no, I thought. Capital tee-are-oh-you-bee-el-ee.
But wait. I had misjudged the situation. And I had misjudged the teens.
“How do those feel?” one of the boys asked. “Do they fit?”
The cold man took a few steps—maybe a dozen. He stopped, looked at his feet, turned around and walked back. “Yeah, they’z about my size,” he answered, flashing a smile that, despite needing a dentist’s attention, was friendly and warm on this cold night.
The teens, all four, grinned back.
“Keep them. They’re yours,” one of the boys replied. “I want you to have them.”
I looked down. The teen was barefoot. The kid had just given the cold-and-probably-homeless man his expensive skateboarding sneakers—and, apparently his socks, as well.
The other two boys sat on their skateboards by the curb, retying their shoelaces. Apparently, they, too, had let the man try on their sneakers to find which pair fit the best. The girl, meanwhile, gave the cold man her oversized sweatshirt.
Chicken Soup for the Soul the Book of Christmas Virtues Page 10
