The Book of Christmas Virtues (12 page)

And, of course, the Bible repeats the theme in renowned poetic perfection: “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).

The world runs on faith. Wispy, yet tenacious. Universal, but personal. Effortless and, sometimes, arduous. Incorporating this virtue into our lives draws us into a larger, divine order.

Defined as “believing” and “trusting,” faith is—above all else— an action, of a crystal mountain lake. one we practice nearly every moment of our lives. Our belief or trust is automatic on the most basic human level. In a secular sense, we live by faith every day—from the magnificent to the mundane—by relying on the goodness of mankind, the principle of gravity, the diagnoses of physicians, even the descriptions in an encyclopedia.

On a more spiritual level, faith means taking chances. And nowhere is that more obvious than watching a child. Any child. Because that's where faith shines brightest—in a childlike heart.

Like Diane's.

After bouts of friendly water warfare, showing off their underwater handstands and playing shark, the kids were excited that their dad offered to take them to the other end of the swimming pool. The water there was so deep even Daddy couldn't touch the bottom.

“Let's try out the diving board,” he urged.

Eight-year-old Kent scooted up the ladder, raced the length of the board and belly flopped into a splash that surprised even Daddy. Diane held back while her younger sister climbed the ladder and, with only a bit of coaxing, took hesitant steps to the edge. Wanda gave one half-hearted bounce, flung her arms upward in complete abandon and practically threw herself into Daddy's open arms.

“Your turn, punkin'.”

Diane counted the five steps on the ladder. Twice. Once going up—and again scurrying down.

“Don't be afraid,” Daddy called.

Even though her knees buckled, Diane made it up the ladder at last. She sidled the length of the diving board and curled her toes in a death grip over the edge. Wet and shivering, lips quivering, teeth chattering, she looked down, down . . . down to where Daddy treaded.

“I'll catch you,” Daddy reassured her.

And Diane trusted. She leapt. Right into his arms.

Sometimes we must dare our souls to go further than is comfortable, further—at times—than we can see. That's how we practice faith; we actually create more faith—stronger faith—by trusting. In Daddy. In ourselves. In God. And to trust is, of course, to triumph.

And so it is that catchphrases abound, reminding us to build our faith:

Keep the faith.

Feed your faith.

Have faith.

Faith moves mountains.

As we exercise our faith, our lives grow stronger. We build our faith into muscle. And it becomes progressively easier to exercise trust and to believe. To realize dreams, achieve goals and fulfill ambitions.

Until, somewhere along the journey, we learn that an all-encompassing faith is our passport to joy.

Everybody Loves Santa

One Christmas season I helped Santa Claus by filling in for him at a small shopping mall. Instead of the usual assembly line of children, I enjoyed spontaneous visits with little tots bearing lists of toys, as well as the occasional surprise visits with teenagers and adults.

A bright, happy and chatty three-and-a-half-year-old sat on my lap, asking questions and answering mine. Finally, looking me in the eye, she said, “I thought you were fake. You're real!” Her doubts removed, I'm sure she had a magical Christmas.

A pair of fifteen-year-old boys ran up, hugged me lovingly and, grinning, asked, “Will you bring us each a motor-cycle?” After a brief chat, they walked away chuckling.

A young father paid the elf photographer for a single picture. “I don't have custody of my children,” he explained, “and I want to show them a picture of you and me shaking hands.” He received the finished photo, mouthed “thank you” and left.

Three teenage girls skipped and twirled over. Giggling, one teased, “I want a sports car.”

The second one topped her. “I want a mansion.”

The last girl whispered in my ear, “I'd like a job for my dad.”

As they walked away, her friends probed, “What did you ask for?”

“That's between me and Santa,” she sighed.

Substitute Santa swallowed hard and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. I truly believe the girl's father found a job becuse, you see, that night Santa prayed he would.

Robert H. Bickmeyer

Presence and Accounted For

Every gift had been wrapped, each recipe prepared, and all the ornaments hung. I had seen to every detail; I knew I hadn't overlooked a thing. And now, with my three anxious children tucked in bed at last, I leaned back in my favorite recliner—satisfied—to survey our perfect, shimmering tree.

I admired the gay packages arranged meticulously underneath. Thanks to my early planning and a little extra money this year, Christmas was going to be wonderful. I couldn't wait to see my children's faces when they tore into their presents the next morning, discovering all of the new clothes and great toys I had bought for them.

I began a mental accounting of the treasures tucked inside each package: the Dallas Cowboys jacket for Brandon, the Fisher Price castle for Jared, the Victorian dollhouse for Brittany . . .

Basking in the glow of twinkling lights and my own thoughts, I barely noticed Jared sneak into the room. My normal reaction would be to jump up and rush him back to bed. Languidly curious this time, I chose to sit still and watch, hoping he wouldn't notice my presence.

I needn't have worried.

Jared was a five-year-old with a mission. The glimmering tree illuminated his small figure as he made his way straight to the nativity beneath it. Sinking to his knees, he held out a paper and whispered, “See, Jesus, I drew this picture for you.”

Not wanting to miss a word, I held my breath and leaned forward.

“On the left side, that's me.” Jared's finger traced a path across the page. “On the right side, that's you.” He pointed. “In the middle is my heart.” He smiled sweetly. “I'm giving it to you.”

With tenderness, Jared placed the picture beneath the tree.

“Merry Christmas, Jesus,” he said and scurried back to bed.

My throat tightened, and my eyes filled. All the sparkling decorations and all the shiny wrappings in the room suddenly dulled in comparison to Jared's innocent crayon drawing. It took my small child's gift of love to remind me that only Jesus can make Christmas wonderful this year. And he always does.

Vickie Ryan Koehler

Let's Get Real

For years and years, our family celebrated Christmas with an artificial tree. The tradition caught on during the seventies when we were living in Australia and it was
hotter'n
all get-out
during the month of December. While the Aussies smothered themselves with zinc cream as they sunbaked on the beach, our family held tenaciously to its American customs, insisting on a traditional sit-down Christmas dinner and, of course, a real-looking tree.

Unfortunately, the heat was too extreme to trust an evergreen, and those who did were soon sorry. Fearing a not-so-festive display of bare branches or, worse yet, a house fire, we opted for the artificial. White plastic, to be exact.

“It looks gross,” my kids whined.

And try as we might to cover it with handmade or imported ornaments, it somehow never made the grade. Meanwhile, year after year, we piled our gifts underneath the fake tree—never even noticing that, with age, it had slowly turned yellow.

Our first yuletide back in America was electric. Dallas, Texas, was never billed as Christmas-in-Vermont, but the possibilities were everywhere. Nurseries from Plano to Waco showcased a winter wonderland of snow-flocked, bushy Scotch pines. Roadside stands, advertised solely by a single strand of swinging lightbulbs, beckoned at dusk for highway travelers to stop and shop in a forest of firs. And supermarkets all around the city did their bit by offering a variety of spruce and cedars to their customers.

Once again, we considered the possibility of buying a
real
tree. Having discarded our white plastic tradition on a friend's doorstep when we left Australia, our kids had high hopes that America could make all their dreams come true. But eventually, dreams gave way to budget, and we hauled home yet another inexpensive imitation.

“At least this one is green,” I told them, “and besides, we won't have the repeated cost of buying a freshly cut tree every Christmas.”

So, for the next fifteen years, we piled our gifts beneath the branches of a manufactured pine—never even noticing that, with age, it had slowly lost its beauty.

This year, however, something magical took place. It happened one night as I approached the electronic doors of our neighborhood grocery store. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a breathtakingly beautiful, real-live Christmas tree, leaning near the entrance. It was there with all the others, yet standing apart. I made a detour to take a second look.

The grand fir that caught my attention stood ten feet high. It was indeed a lofty tree, and I ran my fingers over the needles, surprised by their softness.

Hmmm, maybe this is why children love real trees at Christmas,
I thought, smelling the woodsy fragrance in the air.

A store clerk was working at the far end, slowly watering the trees and making his way in my direction. But I was in no hurry, so I waited. When he saw me admiring the fir, he called out, “Hey, great tree for hanging ornaments!”

I acknowledged him by waving and stepping back to make my final decision. At that very moment, a prerecorded Christmas carol cascaded through the sound system, out into the night. Customers rushed past—some going in, some going out—more or less oblivious to the majestic music filling the air. And the words spilled across the busy parking lot, “No-el, No-el, No-el, No-el. Born is the king of Is-rael,” to the accompaniment of a Salvation Army bell ringer just outside the door.

As I stood in the shadow of that noble fir, I knew this was the year I needed to buy a
real
tree. For no other reason than this is a
real
story being told, a
real
message being sung, and a
real
occasion to celebrate.

So this year, for the very first time ever, our family will pile all our Christmas gifts underneath a towering noble fir—never even noticing that, with age, we're slowly becoming believers all over again.

Charlotte A. Lanham

Ho, Ho, Hope

My decision in the 1960s to run away from a newly divorced life in California and move to the safety of Canada was a big one—one I had to think over for nearly five minutes.

Hooking a battered trailer to my ancient Chevy, I gathered my five young children and headed for parts unknown. Along with my little brood, I took a month's worth of rent money, a pocketful of dreams, some hope for our future and a heart filled with faith.

Vulnerable and haggard after the long drive, I slowed my rickety rig when I saw the sign ahead. With five tousled heads bobbing in the windows, the startled border guard's mouth flew open.

My seven-year-old tossed him her cheekiest smile. One six-year-old twin looked tremulous and wide-eyed at the large man brandishing a gun on his hip; the other glared in defiance. My two- and three-year-old toddlers babbled to capture his attention and interest him in their toy cars and stuffed animals.

Obviously, we'd caught the bewildered guard . . .
off
guard.

Warning that I'd better have a job (I did) and threatening immediate deportation if I attempted to go on welfare, he waved us through.

Shortly after we settled in a small apartment, my old car sputtered to a quick death. I found a sitter for the children and began hitchhiking to work, but because I was sometimes late, I lost the job. My last check went for another month's rent, and there was nothing left for food. As Christmas approached, desperation dogged every waking minute and even disturbed my sleep.

So did the kids' concerns.

“Is Santa
real,
Momma?”

“Will he find us, Momma?”

“Do you believe in him, Momma?”

With painstaking care, I explained that Santa didn't know where we'd moved and would miss us this year, but we had each other, and we would make do and . . . sing Christmas songs and . . . try making gifts and . . . and . . . well, everything would work out.

So, even without a tree, we glued colored paper garlands and strung popcorn to make the apartment festive and ourselves cheerful.

But the day before Christmas, my desperation reached a new low: We had nothing in the cupboard for supper. Reluctantly, I approached our neighbor and asked to borrow a can or two of soup to feed my children. After a curt “No,” the door slammed in my face.

Humiliation and shame were my new companions. And, for the first time in my life, I felt utter fear, despair and hopelessness.