The Book of Christmas Virtues (13 page)

Christmas Eve, I drew my little ones near—the boys on my lap, the girls nestled at my sides. In our meagerly decorated room, we told stories, played games and sang seasonal songs. I smiled at my wee darlings, but inside I was crying. And praying, again and again.

Please, God, oh please, God, send us help.

A sudden, loud
THUMP
at the door startled us all.

“Ho, ho, ho!” A hearty voice accompanied a loud knock.

And there in our doorway stood the jolly old man himself!

With a full sack slung over his back and three merry elves crowding his sides, Santa Claus brought the excitement of Christmas into our small home. He came bearing all kinds of wonderful gifts, something special for each child. Plus, an assortment of toys, games and books— even a gift for me—appeared from the depths of his deep pack! Christmas dinner (courtesy of the Vancouver Fire Department) was included, as well: turkey and the trimmings, enough to last several days.

Laughing and crying, I gazed around the joy-filled room at the satisfied faces of Santa and his helpers and the gleeful abandonment of my little family.

“Momma, Momma, he's real!” they chorused. “Santa found us!”

Yes, indeed he found us . . . in answer to my prayer. And that made a believer out of me.

Angela Hall

Away from the Manger

“Okay, that's the last of it.” Michael stacked the final box in my entry hall.

I surveyed the tattered, dusty containers with anticipation. To me, these Christmas decorations from Michael's childhood, in storage since his mother's death, signified our future together as a couple. We were sharing all sorts of holiday activities—parties, shopping and, now, decorating. In a few months we'd be married, and I was eager to create some traditions of our own. I yearned for meaningful practices, significant and unique to the two of us.

Opening the crates was a start.

“Hey, here's our old nativity set.” Michael pulled out a well-packed box. “Mom always put it under the Christmas tree.”

I carefully unwrapped Mary and Joseph and the manger. Stuffed deep in the newspapers was a stable. I placed it on the floor beneath the tree and arranged three wise men, a shepherd boy, a lamb and a cow. All accounted for, except . . .

I double-checked the loose packing and looked under the wadded newspapers, hoping to find the missing figure. Nothing.

“Honey,” I called to Michael, who was busily arranging Santa's toyshop in the dining room. “I can't find Jesus.”

Walking to my side, he playfully squeezed my shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“The baby Jesus for the nativity. He's not here!” I rummaged through more wrappings.

Michael's expression tensed. “He's here. He has to be. He was here the last Christmas Mom was alive.”

Hours later, all the boxes were unpacked, but Jesus never appeared. Michael regretfully suggested we pack the nativity scene back in the crate.

“No,” I said. “I'll find a baby that matches the set tomorrow.”

We kissed good night, and Michael went home.

The next day, I stuffed the manger into my purse and headed to the hobby store during my lunch hour. No Jesus there. After work, I searched for him at several other stores only to discover that baby Jesus
wasn't sold separately.
I considered buying another nativity just to replace the Jesus in Michael's, but none of the infants fit the manger.

Michael arrived for dinner a few days later, and I broke the news to him. After we ate, I began to repack the figurines in their box. Michael stilled my hands with his.

“I think we should leave it up.”

“Honey, we can't. There's no baby,” I replied. “We can't have a nativity without Jesus.”

“Wait a minute.” Michael pulled me away from the tree. “Now look from back here.”

He pointed. “At first glance, you don't notice anything missing. It's not until you look closely that you see the Christ Child is gone.”

I cocked my head and looked at the scene. He was right. “But I don't get your point.”

“Amid the decorations, shopping lists and parties, sometimes we lose sight of Jesus,” he explained. “Somehow, he gets lost in the midst of Christmas.”

And then I understood.

So began our first Christmas tradition—significant and unique to our family. Each year, we position the treasured figures in their customary places. The manger remains empty. It's our gentle reminder to look for Christ at Christmas.

Stephanie Welcher Thompson

The Family Tree

“Mr. Zimmerman's sons are returning home to take over the farm.”

The adult conversation around the kitchen table worried me. At seven years old, I was big enough to understand what that meant: My father and brother would no longer be working for the German farmer, and that spelled disaster.

The Great Depression had hit our rural Idaho community, and money was scarce that Christmas. Most of Father's income from Mr. Zimmerman was in trade for food and a place to live. This place. The only home I'd ever known. The home I loved.

The two-story farmhouse had one large sleeping room upstairs. It opened to a balcony overlooking the backyard and my favorite oak tree. During the spring and summer, soft, warm breezes blew through the room, and Jimmy, Eddie, Iris and I played for hours on end.

Now it was too cold. We had closed off the upstairs for everything but sleeping. Most of our winter living was done downstairs next to the warm fireplace, or in the kitchen where Mother was always baking yeasty breads and fragrant pies.

I was sitting on the floor playing with Harley, who was learning to crawl, when mother came in from the pump and set the bucket on the large woodstove. Water sloshed onto the hot stovetop, sizzling and filling the air with steam.

“Mother, will we really have to leave here?” My question was blunt. It was the worry foremost in my mind.

She looked down at me, sympathy and understanding etching her kind face. “Yes, Carol, we will.”

I frowned. “But what about Christmas?”

“It will be the last holiday we'll celebrate in this house.” Mother verbalized my darkest fear.

“And a tree? Will we have a tree?”

“Child, we have no means to get a tree this year.”

But I couldn't—I wouldn't—accept her calm answer. Somehow we
must
have a tree for our last family Christmas in this wonderful old farmhouse.

That night I prayed for a very, very long time.

The next morning I hurried downstairs fully expecting to see the answer to my prayers, but there was no tree. I put on my warm sweater and mittens and headed to the outhouse. As the cold air hit my face, I became even more determined.

When Father left to walk the four miles into town, I decided to wait outside until he returned—even if it took all day. I settled beneath my favorite oak on the cold, hard ground, certain he'd bring home a tree.

It seemed like I'd been sitting for hours when I felt the ground start to rumble and heard a dull, distant roar that grew louder and louder. I jumped to my feet and ran to the fence. A large truck—full of Christmas trees—was headed for delivery in the city. My heart pounded as it drew up beside our house.

And then, like a hand tossing them from heaven, two large branches flew right off the truck and bounced into our front yard. My prayers had been answered. My tree had arrived!

I raced inside and, my words tripping over each other, babbled to Mother about how badly I wanted a tree for our last Christmas here and how hard I had prayed for it and how I was hoping Father would bring one home and how I just
knew
we'd get one in time for Christmas and now . . . and
now!

Mother took my hand and walked me outside where Iris, Jimmy and Eddie stood gawking at the miracle in our yard. She smiled and pulled us together in a hug. “And to think, children, it was Carol's faith that brought us our tree.”

We tied the bushy limbs together, then decorated them with wallpaper scraps and garlands of popcorn. I admired the tree as it stood in our big farmhouse home and knew it was the most beautiful tree I'd ever seen.

That year I also received the only doll I would ever have as a child. But my greatest gift was the discovery that—with faith—miracles happen.

Carol Keim
As told to (daughter) Tamara Chilla
Submitted by (niece) Laura Linares

Going Global

Hoping for a white Christmas? Why not create a wintry scene straight from your own imagination by designing a holiday snow globe?

Supplies you'll need:

• any small, clean jar (jelly, pimento, olive, baby food, etc.)

• miniature figurines (synthetic, plastic or ceramic) from hobby stores, cake-supply centers or model-railroad shops

• clear-drying epoxy

• distilled water

• glycerin (purchase at any pharmacy)

• glitter

How to:

• Roughen the inside of the jar lid with an emery board or sand paper.

• Adhere the figurines to the inside of the lid with epoxy and let it dry.

• Fill the jar almost full with distilled water.

• Add a pinch or two of glitter for “snow.”

• Pour in a dash of glycerin (to slow the glitter).

• Screw the lid on tightly, and seal it with epoxy.

Now, turn the jar upside down, and—let it snow!

Wonder

Wonder Full

The true path to Christmas, it is said, lies through an ancient gate.

And, according to the sages, the gate is child-wide and child-high, and the secret password is a childlike sigh. A sigh of wonder.

Come, take my hand. Bend low and slip through the arbor for a glimpse of Mother Nature at her most generous: into the lush hush of Christmas in the Rockies . . . where pinions sprawl, ponderosas slumber and bristlecones snuggle in quiet companionship. Where spruce trees—too green to be black, yet too black to be green—pace the perimeters of the forest glade like expectant fathers. Where cobalt shadows float, mysterious and beckoning, beneath supple pines while winter's wind breathes hints of miracles to come.

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.”