The Book of Christmas Virtues (10 page)

An orange! Of his very own? Yes, the others assured
him. One for each child. The boy closed his eyes against
the wonder of it all. A tree. Candles. A filling meal.
And—last and best of all—an orange of his very own.

He knew the smell, tangy sweet, but only the smell.
He'd sniffed them at the merchant's stall in the marketplace.
Once he'd even dared to rub a single finger over
the brilliant, pocked skin. He fancied for days that his
hand still smelled of orange. But taste one, eat one?

The story ended abruptly, yet Jean didn't mind. She knew more would follow.

The next evening, her pile of unaddressed Christmas cards was shrinking when the doorbell rang. Jean wasn't disappointed. However, the embossed gold bag was heavier than the others had been. She tore into the envelope resting on top of the tissue paper.

Christmas Eve was all—and more—than the children
had promised. The piney scent of fir competed with the
aroma of lamb stew and homey yeast bread. Scores of
candles diffused the room with golden haloes. The timid
boy, at the very back of the line, watched in amazement
as each child in turn eagerly claimed an orange and
politely said, “Thank you.”

The line moved quickly, and he found himself in
front of the towering tree and the equally imposing
headmaster. “Too bad, young man, too bad. The head
count was in before you arrived. It seems there are no
more oranges. Next year. Yes, next year you will receive
an orange.” Brokenhearted, the empty-handed orphan
raced up the stairs to bury both his face and his tears
beneath his pillow.

Wait! This wasn't how she wanted the story to go. Jean felt the boy's pain, his aloneness.

The boy felt a gentle tap on his back. He tried to still
his sobs. The tap was more insistent until, at last, he
pulled his head from under the pillow. He smelled it
before he saw it. A cloth napkin rested on the mattress.
Tucked inside was a peeled orange, tangy sweet. It was
made of segments saved—last and best of all—from the
others. A slice donated from each of his new friends.
Together the pieces made one whole, complete fruit.

An orange of his very own.

Jean swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. From the bottom of the gift bag she pulled out an orange— a foil-covered, chocolate orange—already separated into segments. And, for the first time in weeks, she smiled. Really smiled.

She set about making copies of the story, segmenting and wrapping individual slices of the chocolate orange. After all, she had visits to make. There was Mrs. Potter across the street, spending her first Christmas alone in fifty-eight years. There was Melanie down the block, facing her second round of radiation. Her running partner, Jan, single-parenting a difficult teen. Lonely Mr. Bradford losing his eyesight, and Sue, sole caregiver to an aging mother . . .

Perhaps, just perhaps, a piece from her might help make one whole.

Carol McAdoo Rehme

Sealed with a Kiss

Christmas is a wonderful time to share a favorite treat with a friend. Whip this up in triple batches and give them with a smile.

Kiss Kringles

¾ cup sugar

2 sticks softened butter

2 cups sifted flour

1 cup finely chopped pecans

8-ounce bag of chocolate candy kisses powdered sugar for dusting

Cream together sugar and butter until smooth. Stir in flour; fold in pecans. Seal dough in plastic wrap and chill at least 30 minutes.

Remove foil from chocolate kisses. Completely cover each chocolate with enough dough to make a 1-inch ball. Place on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for about 12 minutes at 350°, until lightly firm.

Sift powdered sugar over tops while still warm. Makes 2½ dozen cookies.

Be extra kind:
Package your cookies in decorator tins, on holiday trays, or in napkin-lined sewing baskets, small ice buckets, or cheery pottery bowls.

Gratitude

Steeped in Gratitude

You can make it quick: Plug in a single-serve, electric hot pot and dip a tissued teabag.

You can make it simple: Zap a stoneware mug of prebrewed in the microwave.

You can make it on-the-run: Propel your car into the nearest drive-through, place a quick order and pay at the window.

To get a cup of tea, you can do any of those things, and you probably have. But at what cost? Perhaps you're forfeiting a pleasure in the act itself.

Taking time to
plan
a proper cup of tea allows you to
pause
in the routine of daily life, to elevate yourself to a higher plane. Pull out a favored teakettle—well-worn and coppered, or plump and patinaed, maybe full-bellied and Dumbo-eared—and fill it with freshly drawn water. Wait for it to whistle.

And while you're waiting, attend to the details.

You might discover that
preparing
the tea tray brings its own peculiar
pleasure
. Gather those special items guaranteed to please: a whimsical cloth napkin, your grandmother's chipped, bone-china teapot,a quaintly mismatched cup and saucer,and a delicate silver spoon. Add your personal selection of sugar cubes, clovered honey, heavy cream or serrated lemon slices.

Then select your favorite flavor of loose tea. What will it be today? Traditional oolong, Ceylon or sage? Exotic jasmine, lingonberry or licorice? Or what about something Christmasy, maybe cinnamon-apple, peppermint or orange-tangerine?

And keep an ear cocked toward the kettle. First, you'll hear humming and hissing. Next, a full-throated gurgling, just before the kettle bursts into full song, whistling for your attention.

Serve
your tea with the
ceremony
it deserves. Swill a bit of boiling water in Grandma's teapot, empty it out and add those flavor-filled leaves. Flood with burbling water. Cover. Simmer. Steep. Let the fragrant tendrils of steam seep from the spout to tempt and tickle your senses. Inhale, deeply.

Mind-mellowing,muscle-melting . . .

And when you've waited as long as you can, pour yourself a cup. Right to the brim.

Swizzle the lemon or dollop the cream.

Drizzle some honey or swirl a sugar cube. One lump? Two?

Now allow yourself the
serenity
to
savor
the full-bodied drink. Position your face to catch the last rays of the winter sun. Or prop your toes in front of a toasty fire. Puff away the steam . . .and take a test sip. Then another. And another.
Ahhhhhhhh.
Let its warmth seep through your limbs, thaw your tummy and soothe your soul.

A home-brewed cup of tea. Simple and satisfying. Perhaps all the more so because of the thought, the ritual and the repetition that created the experience itself.

Like brewing tea, gratitude is an art to be practiced, a virtue worth perfecting.

When was the last time you considered life's abundance? Felt appreciation for the small things? December's first snowfall, a thick comforter on a winter night, an empty bus seat when you're loaded with holiday packages. Or counted your larger blessings? A secure job,well-behaved teenagers and forgiveness from a mate.

Next, think about those who have touched your life. Has someone soothed an ache? Filled a void? Maybe you've been the recipient of a kind deed or an act of compassion. When you were torn, did someone mend you? When you were down, did someone lift you up? When you were tired, did someone carry you?

And, above all, did you remember to express your gratitude?

It's never too late to show your appreciation to others.

You
could
make it quick, simple,on-the-run. Or you can indulge in the full-bodied experience of expressing gratitude until the repetition itself becomes a ritual as natural and rhythmic as brewing tea.

Pause and plan a way to do it:
How can you best acknowledge a thoughtful favor? What can you do to instill delight?

Take pleasure in the preparation:
Give of yourself, your time, your emotions, your energy. Never rush an act of appreciation. Enjoy the process.

Serve it with a bit of ceremony:
Use your best stationery and a fine-tipped pen, or pick the tightest buds from your prized rosebush.

By elevating gratitude to a virtue, you might discover your own heart warms in the process. So brew a satisfying cup of appreciation and fully
savor the serenity
. . . sip by tiny sip.

St. Nick's Note

As the weatherman promised, the temperature climbs to ninety-eight by midafternoon. I waste no time retrieving the mail from our box.

“Whew! The humidity must be 102.” I collapse into a kitchen chair.

“You know it!” My husband agrees. He sits with both hands wrapped around a large glass of iced tea, still sweating after mowing the lawn.

“It's only July. Aren't you rushing the season a bit, Santa?” I tease.

“Are you referring to my red nose and cheeks?” He wiggles his bushy eyebrows. “Just getting a headstart on Christmas this year.”

My jolly old St. Nick delights hundreds of children—of all ages—each December. Whether he's appearing at schools or in parades, he spreads his special Santa brand of love and kindness.

“Anything important?” He points at the mail on the table.

Fanning the pile, I hand him a farming magazine, a soil-and-water conservation newsletter and this month's electric bill. Toward the bottom of the stack, I pause to inspect a small white envelope.

“You're not going to believe this.” I turn the letter toward Alan. “It's addressed to Santa Claus.”

“Well, maybe I'm not so early after all,” he chuckles. But instead of a wish list, he pulls out a hand-decorated card. “Thank You” is scrawled across the front. A trace of moisture washes his eyes.

“Remember these little guys, Mrs. Claus?” He hands me the card.

Oh, yes, I remember.

Each year I help Santa make “special deliveries”—for organizations, church groups or even concerned individuals— to single-parent families, the newly widowed, recently divorced, unemployed or those whose income barely covers essentials. These anonymous deliveries from Santa mean more than gifts under their trees or dinner on their tables: These deliveries express love and concern.

And this card comes from one of those single parents.

A month before last Christmas, this young mother found herself single and the sole provider for her seven-year-old twins. When she'd escaped her abusive situation, she was forced to leave behind most personal items, including her sons' bikes. According to a caring counselor at the “safe house,” the distressed woman dreaded explaining to her sons that Santa couldn't bring new bikes this year. She'd accepted all the help she felt she was entitled to and wouldn't ask for more. Besides, bikes were a luxury.

Her friends didn't agree.

Because of those friends, Santa and Mrs. Claus delivered quite a load of groceries, gaily wrapped presents— and two new bikes to the grateful mother. Identical blue-eyed, freckle-nosed faces burst into jack-o'lantern smiles a mile wide as they peeked around her skirt.

“Oh, my goodness . . . we can't . . . who are you?” she stammered.

“Santa, of course! And this is Mrs. Claus,” my husband boomed with a wink at the boys. “You made a very special list this year, and we wanted to deliver these early.”

Santa's parting, “Ho, ho, ho,” still echoed on the porch when a small, excited voice reached us, “Mama, I told you Santa would find us, even if we have to hide from Daddy.”

Opening the card that jolted my memory, I read aloud to Santa. “It took me seven long months to discover how to reach you. I was so surprised that morning you came, I'm not sure I remembered to thank you. You helped the healing process begin and gave us back faith and hope.”

Twin smiley faces followed the mother's signature at the bottom.

They were identical to our own.

Pamela Bumpus

Mother to Mother

I sit in the audience with the other parents, beaming at our children filing into their seats. My little ones' black hair and sienna skin make exclamation points among the other, pastel angels forming the pageant choir.

The chorister raises her arm, and the pianist comes in with the downbeat. So do some of the kids—a bit early. In cherubic fervor, their words spill out, “I am a child of God . . .”

Oh, how I wish both of you could see this. They're perfect. Just
perfect.

I often send this silent message to my children's birth mothers. I long to comfort and reassure them, to share with them the unspeakable joy their babies have brought into my life. I long to tell them their precious ones are beautiful and bright, healthy and strong.

“. . . and he has sent me here . . .” I can almost distinguish Shyloh's sweet voice in the choir.