Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas

by Jack Canfield

  I reached the “kettle” and was greeted by the smiling faces of two Salvation Army officers.

  “God bless you, my love, and Merry Christmas!” said the man in the neatly pressed uniform. His eyes were like twinkling stars, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

  “God bless you, too, and Merry Christmas to you and yours as well,” I replied as I deposited a twenty-dollar bill into the plastic ball. I was doing this now, not only in memory of my father, who always made the annual trip to the Salvation Army kettle, but also for my own son and daughter. Hopefully, they would carry on the tradition when I passed on, knowing that they, too, had been taught the true meaning of Christmas as my dad had taught me— the gift of knowing that it is indeed better to give than to receive.

  I joined the throng of the other shoppers and made my way back home. My family would be waiting for me. I envisioned the scene that would greet me. My husband would be standing over a piping hot pot of soup (all ready for the friends and family who would show up tonight after the late evening church service). My son, Luke, would be busy belting out the newest Christmas carol he had learned to play on one of the many musical instruments he owned. (God had truly blessed him with the gift of music.) Emily would be waiting at the top of the stairs with the baby Jesus in her hand. She would greet me with an emphatic, “Mommy, it’s time now to put the baby in the nativity scene. What took you so long?” I’d scoop her up and say, “Yes, it is time, sweetheart.” Then I’d move into the living room, freshly decorated with trinkets and treasures from past Christmases together, and as I would watch my daughter carefully lay the Christ child in the manger, I’d bow my head and say, “Merry Christmas, Dad, and Happy Birthday, Jesus.”

  Kimberly Welsh

  The Gift of Time

  What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness?

  Jean Jacques Rousseau

  I was a Christmas baby, and today was my tenth birthday, making it extra special. After opening our presents and eating Christmas brunch with Mum and Dad, my big sister Gail and I scooted upstairs to our bedroom to try out some of our gifts. She was placing a stack of 45-rpm records on the spindle of the record player, and I was about to model another of my new sweaters when Mum called up to us.

  “Carol! Gail! Are you two dressed yet? We’re leaving soon to visit your grandmother. Hurry up! She’ll be expecting us!”

  Gail and I exchanged pained looks. Don’t get me wrong: we dearly loved our Gramma White, but visiting a nursing home on Christmas Day was not our idea of fun. We shrugged our shoulders in joint resignation and started to get dressed.

  Gramma White had been living with us for the past three years, but a month ago she fell and broke her hip. During her hospital stay, Dad and Mum held a family conference and explained that Gramma could not return home. She needed greater care than we could provide. When she was released from the hospital, she was transferred to a nearby nursing home. Mum visited her almost every day. Gail and I dropped in to say hello a few times on our way home from school. The white metal beds and side tables were all the same, and everything else was painted in varying shades of pale green. Gramma usually remembered who we were, but sometimes she didn’t, and we would coax her into conversation by talking about the old days at the cottage. The dry air was always too warm and tainted with the odors of illness and aging. I felt uncomfortable standing next to her bed in a large room filled with other old people. Our visits were usually very short.

  Christmas was Gramma’s favorite time of year. As the holiday season approached, the decorations hung by the staff made her aware that this would be her first Christmas away from home and family. She felt very sad. So to cheer up Gramma we told her we would bring Christmas to her. It was time to keep our promise.

  Gail and I came downstairs to the kitchen where Mum approved of our outfits and put the finishing touches on our hair. It was just a five-minute drive to the home.

  We entered the lobby area where the communal Christmas tree was lighted, but the hallways were empty, and our footsteps echoed hollowly in the stairwell as we walked to the second floor. When we passed the long line of beds in the ward, I noticed most of the patients were sleeping and that we seemed to be the only visitors. When Gramma saw us, she smiled and responded happily to our hugs and Merry Christmas wishes. She was enjoying the day! We had a wonderful time while opening gifts, telling tales of Christmas past, and even singing carols.

  Dad also noticed that few of the other patients had visitors. He remained quiet and seemed deep in thought while we continued to chat with Gramma. Then he excused himself and left the ward.

  He returned carrying some cartons of ice cream and paper cups from the cafeteria. He explained his plan:

  Christmas was a time for family to celebrate the joy of the season together with loved ones. If, for whatever reason, family and friends couldn’t be there for some of the other patients, then we would substitute and bring the spirit of Christmas to them. While Mum stayed with Gramma, the three of us went visiting. Dad took Gail and me across the hall and explained our mission to the nurse, who was more than happy to assist. He went back to visit with Gramma while the nurse took Gail and me around the ward.

  As a shy ten-year-old, I was very nervous at first. I didn’t know any of these people, and they didn’t know me. Sadly, some of them were a little confused and even uncertain about what was so special about this particular day. The nurse escorted me to the bedside of my first challenge and pointed out the patient’s name taped at the foot of her bed. After a moment’s hesitation, I summoned the courage to introduce myself and offer her some ice cream. Although the memory of her name has faded over the years, I still recall our conversation. She declined the treat, but smiled and told me she had a granddaughter about my age who lived out West. She asked me to sit and tell her what I got for Christmas, and when she found out it was my birthday, too, she hugged me!

  That first successful stop helped me overcome my stage fright, and as I moved from bed to bed, the heartwarming smiles and kind comments from each resident gave me confidence. I really began to get into the spirit of things. I especially remember my last stop.

  I had just two cups of ice cream left, and I was saving one for myself. The occupant of that final bed was a very frail-looking woman. A halo of soft white hair framed her heavily lined face, and her head was sunk deeply into the pillow. She appeared to be asleep. I sat in the chair beside her bed and said softly, “Merry Christmas. Would you like some ice cream?”

  Her eyelids fluttered and then opened wide, revealing a pair of bright blue eyes. She frowned, then fixed her gaze on me and spoke hesitatingly, “But I don’t have any money.”

  “That’s okay,” I replied. “They’re free.”

  “Oh,” she said, as a bright smile spread across her face, erasing decades of age, “then I’ll have two.”

  I opened both of the ice-cream cups, unwrapped a wooden spoon, and passed them to her.

  We talked while she ate.

  That was almost fifty Christmases ago, but I can still picture those sparkling blue eyes and recall the wonderful feeling that came from giving another the priceless gift of my time.

  Carol (Pearce) Forrest as told to John Forrest

  The Nativity Story

  We stumbled upon the manger scene one December night. It was a live nativity scene in front of a small church. I was on the way home from a Christmas party with my two children, nine and six, who had jumped and played and eaten too much pizza, cake, and candy canes.

  The excitement of the season had reached an almost unbearable climax as they discussed what Santa might bring this year.

  While driving, I pointed out, “Oh, look a live nativity scene!” My six-year-old exclaimed, “A donkey! Let’s go see.” The traffic was heavy with Christmas shoppers, and it would take a few maneuvers and more patience than I had after two hours in a Jumping Party Zone with thirty-plus children giddy on holiday snacks, but I nevertheless decided to add this wonderful, unanticip
ated reminder of the season to our agenda. I made a U-turn and waited for traffic to clear.

  Only a few cars were there when we finally turned into the parking lot of the small church. I guess many others’ mental flipping of the coin had landed the other way, and they had decided to keep driving and stick to the to-do list they had so close to Christmas.

  We walked toward the scene. It was sweet and not elaborate, what one would expect of a small church production. There were no words, other than those from the audience milling about, sipping hot cocoa, and talking quietly. We were welcomed by a woman with smiling eyes, and I commented, “We were just driving by and had to stop.”

  “That’s the point,” the woman said kindly. “We’re glad you did. The kids can feed the donkey and the goats if they’d like.”

  If they’d like? I thought. Are you kidding me? The feeding of livestock was the point of our stopping. They were not able to see baby Jesus from the busy street, after all.

  The kids moseyed toward the goats first and petted them, but the donkey was the main attraction. They measured food into their hands and offered it to the animal. The donkey did not seem very interested, but he did try to take a nibble at my son’s elbow. Both of the kids giggled.

  After the donkey incident, I watched my daughter, Shelby, as she walked toward the manger scene. It had taken a while for her to turn her full attention to it as the distractions of the animals had kept her busy. But now I could see in her face the slow recognition of the scene in front of her. She walked sideways, tentatively and slowly gazing at the little stable scene, lit by a bright spotlight. The cast included Mary, Joseph, and several toddlers dressed as angels, complete with golden garland looping their small heads.

  I witnessed a most striking image that burned into my memory forever—my nine-year-old daughter walking in front of that spotlight.With clarity on her face, she realized that she had wandered into the light that was meant for Jesus. She humbly walked to the side, joining the audience of witnesses.

  I was tearful nearly the whole way home. In-between admonishing the kids not to touch each other with their livestock-contaminated hands, I played the moment with Shelby’s viewing over and over in my mind.

  The moments we had just shared were a perfect metaphor for the season. The busy traffic and parties had nearly kept us away from the story of Jesus. I had come inches from not stopping, from not taking the time and energy.

  I thought of my children kneeling at the side of that pen, their intensity focused on ensuring that the goats were full and happy. And I remembered,most of all, the light cast on the baby Jesus, illuminating him and my children’s images.

  This Christmas I pray for a child’s humble eyes to see the meaning I witnessed. I pray that, not just at Christmas, but during all the days of this life, I am able to follow the light of what’s truly important, to follow the to-do list placed before me by the Holy Spirit and not placed on me by the distractions of this world. As I drove home that dark evening, I recounted what I had said when we stopped. “We were just driving by and had to stop.” And then the prophetic words spoken straight from God, I now believe, “That’s the point.” To notice the light and stop.

  Amy Breitmann

  Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. © 2007 Jonny Hawkins.

  2

  THROUGH

  THE EYES OF

  A CHILD

  If you can’t accept anything on faith, you are doomed to a life dominated by doubt.

  Kris Kringle, Miracle on 34th Street

  Once a Year

  The only gift is a portion of thyself.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  “Lindy,” the young boy whispered. His eager tug continued at her sleeve until his little sister’s curly head turned on her pillow.

  “Lindy, wake up. It’s Christmas.” The words were like cold water to the six-year-old’s eyes, wakening her from a deep sleep. Sitting up, she blinked and peered around. It was still dark, but it was an unspoken rule that once you woke up after falling asleep, no matter the time, it was officially Christmas morning. So she pushed her blankets aside and let her other older brother take her by the hand and lead her to the staircase.

  Although Lindy was the youngest of five children, this time with her brothers and sister was a secret delight of her own. For it was on this special day of the year that she was willingly included in their adventure. She smiled inwardly, her heart picking up its pace as anticipation set in. Each child would gasp when his or her name was on a particularly large present. With eager fingers, they would tear the many tiny packages their mother had painstakingly wrapped to fill their stockings.

  The two middle boys giggled as they took turns sliding down the long, wooden banister.

  “Shh,” the oldest sister warned with a wide smile.

  “You’re going to wake up Mom and Dad.” She turned to Lindy, taking her other hand. “Come on, Lin.”

  The warm fuzzies in Lindy’s stomach grew to near exploding. Willingly, she let her sister and brother take her down the orange carpeted stairs. If they only knew, she thought to herself, but she knew she would never tell them. Taken by the hand, escorted into their plans with excitement and such gentle care, was Lindy’s best Christmas gift ever.

  Lindy B. Dolan

  Christmas in the Heart of a Child

  Every child comes with a message that

  God is not yet discouraged of man.

  Rabindranth Tagore

  It was my turn at church to serve communion to the elderly people who can’t make it to the church services. Kallie went with me, clinging to her Beanie Baby. She loved that doll more than anything!

  We went to serve the first person on our list at a local nursing home. He was a kindly old gentleman named George. I had visited him before. He was pleasant and physically spry for his age. He seemed happy to see us. My daughter communicates well with the elderly. She immediately gave him a big hug (Beanie Baby and all). The smile on his face seemed to grow from the depths of his heart. There is nothing like the love of a little child to brighten one’s day.

  I asked George if he had any family around, and he said no. I asked him how he had been doing, to which he replied, “Not very well.” He said he just wasn’t having a good day. However, George maintained a great attitude about his health, and he knew that God was in control. As

  I glanced over at my daughter, I could see the sympathy in her eyes. It was the kind that only a child can feel in her somewhat limited understanding of an adult world, but a pure kind of sympathy that knows no age boundaries.

  After I had served communion, we started saying our good-byes, but as he did the last time I visited him, George got up and said he would walk us out. He said it was good for him to get up and walk from time to time.

  When we exited the building, he kept on walking through the courtyard with us, right to the gate out by the street. I shook his hand and thanked him for walking us out. He seemed grateful to have had visitors and thanked us.

  Then it happened—my daughter really caught me off guard. As she went to hug George good-bye, she held up her Beanie Baby and said, “You can have him.” I found myself wanting to leap forward and say, “No, you don’t have to . . .” but I was frozen in my tracks. George bent down and took it from her with a smile and a hug. I was stunned. My mind was trying to comprehend what I had just witnessed. My eight-year-old daughter had just shown me Christ in action. Her love and compassion were a natural and immediate manifestation of her love and obedience. What self-sacrifice! I could only hope and pray to love and give so willingly.

  As we made our way to my truck, I turned and looked back at George. Burned into my mind forever would be the memory of a bent-over old man, who had just been touched by God through the heart of a little child, shuffling back to his confinement and clutching a little smiley-faced Beanie Baby.

  My vision was blurred from watery eyes as I told my daughter how much I loved her and how proud I was of her. “You just made God smil
e!”

  Lane Clayton as told to Joan Clayton

  A Little Angel’s Big Prayer

  While we try to teach our children all about

  life, our children teach us what life is all about.

  Unknown

  When I heard my father’s voice on our answering machine that day six years ago, I knew instantly why he was calling. He is far too deaf to use a phone anymore. It had to mean that my mother had died.

  And she had, quite suddenly. The demands of organizing the funeral pushed us through the next days, held up by a chain of prayer with links all over the world. Her recent illness meant that, despite the pain of our loss, this really was her Lord’s reprieve. My sister and I both felt this, which made my mother feel very close to us.

  But my father seemed encased in a mountain of ice, moving through the hours in sad-faced silence. Her near-constant companion for sixty years, he couldn’t visualize life without her—and didn’t seem to want to try.

  I was relieved when he accepted my offer to stay on with him for a week after every one else had left. But, eventually, I had to return home, too. He lasted six days on his own, then collapsed. My sister brought him back to her new home, midway between his Florida one and mine in New Hampshire. He was admitted to a nearby hospital for surgery, and for the second time in three weeks, I boarded a plane on short notice.

  I was appalled when I saw him. My sister and I knew that, regardless of his illness, he was really fighting to find the will to live—and might not succeed. My prayers begged God to sustain him, to help him feel God’s love, as well as ours. But as Dad became increasingly unresponsive, my heart sank more heavily than ever.

  On Christmas Eve, I asked God to help me do what I could, surrender to him what I couldn’t, and trust that he held Dad in his loving hands, whatever the outcome.