The Book of Christmas Virtues (15 page)

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 included) 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.

With my heart warmed by the unfolding drama, I went back into the shop.

“Could I trouble you for another dozen doughnuts?” I asked, then told the clerk what I had witnessed.

Christmas spirit, it seemed, was more contagious than flu or chicken pox. Indeed, the cold night got even warmer when the woman not only wouldn't let me pay for the doughnuts, but added a large coffee, too.

“These are from the lady inside. Have a nice night,” I said as I delivered the warm doughnuts and piping-hot cup. The old man smiled appreciatively.

“You have a nice night, too,” the teens said.

I already had.

Woody Woodburn

'Twas the Night

When I was a child, our family traditionally caroled on Christmas Eve. It was a joint venture, with the neighborhood churches all participating. Not only did we brave the cold winds to sing door-to-door, but our caroling benefited the Fannie Battle Day Home, a local organization for unwed mothers.

The procedure was routine. We met at the local Methodist church, divided into teams and conducted a quick rehearsal. A child was commissioned as spokesperson for the evening and given a modest, wooden box with a slit in the top to collect donations.

Assuming a seven-year-old could easily pull the heartstrings of any Scrooge that lived in the district, someone handed
me
the collection box that year. My assignment was elementary: Wait patiently until someone opened the door, and then cheerfully announce, “Merry Christmas! We're collecting money for the Fannie Battle Day Home. Would you like to make a donation?”

I memorized my lines before leaving the church and walked proudly ahead of the others, protecting the box with my tiny, gloved hands.

A dusty snow fell around us, and halos around the streetlamps provided our only light—except for the flashlights used to read music. Some houses felt inviting, others intimidating, but—sensing the choir was never far behind—I boldly approached each home and knocked loudly.

A towering old man, dressed in his pajamas, came to a window and peered through the curtains before opening his door. My knees trembled, but I waited until he acknowledged me and courageously blurted out my rehearsed appeal.

“Merry Christmas! We're from the Dannie Hattle Fay Bome. Would you like to make a monation?”

The man chuckled and motioned his wife to bring his wallet. Together they dropped in a few dollars. Ah, success! On to the next house.

“Merry Christmas! We're from the Hannie Dattle Bay Fome. Would you care to make a dolation?”

And at another door, “Merry Christmas! We're from the Bannie Fattle Hay Dome. Would you need to make some domations?”

No doubt about it, I was
cute
. And in spite of the fact that I couldn't get the words right, people were generous and good-hearted. But I was young and cold and growing weary.

Too tired to carry on, I surrendered my position at the front line of duty to a more experienced caroler. Huddling close to the others, I stomped my feet and blew my breath into my palms like I watched others do. It wasn't long before we arrived at the end of Cephas Avenue, completing the circle back to the Methodist Church.

Hot chocolate, doughnuts and my mother waited for us in the warm hall. Once my toes were thawed and my tummy full, Mama took me home and nestled me all snug in my wee little bed.

But there were no sugarplums dancing in my head that night. No visions of candy canes or lollipops. Instead, I fell asleep remembering the faces of those who gladly put money into my little wooden box . . . remembering the house where we sang around the bedside of a wrinkled, old lady in a hospital gown . . . remembering how she cried when we left . . . remembering the carolers softly singing “Away in a Manger” under a light snow.

The night's music and magic stayed with me. And I remember it still—each Christmas Eve—when I'm nestled all snug in my wee little bed.

Charlotte A. Lanham

Let It Snow!

“Wasn't tonight's church service wonderful, Beth?”

“Hmm? I'm sorry. What did you say, dear?”

Roe glanced at his wife. “I asked what you thought of the Christmas Eve program.”

“Nice. It was . . . nice.” Beth looked over her shoulder. All three kids slumped against each other in the backseat, sound asleep.

“But?”

Beth didn't answer. She turned to stare out the windshield. A steady stream of traffic slinked like a glowworm, inching its way along the interstate at the foothills of Colorado's Front Range.

“Beth? What's wrong?”

“Wrong? Oh, I'm not sure that anything in particular is wrong, but it's not exactly right, either.” She sighed. “Or maybe it's just that everything is so . . . different.”

“Well, this isn't Minnesota,” Roe chuckled.

“No, it's not, and that's the problem. I guess I'm homesick. Christmas in Minnesota was . . .” Beth's voice trailed off, and her mind followed.

Christmas—in Minnesota.

Where stars glittered over a frozen wonderland. How well she knew those winter scenes with steepled churches, fence posts, fields and barns. All covered with icy snow, wonderful for sledding and old-fashioned sleigh rides and building igloos and forts and massive snow sculptures and . . .

Christmas—at church.

Where friends whispered seasonal greetings. Where aunts, uncles and giggling young cousins crowded into pews. Where grandparents still sang the old carols in Norwegian.

Christmas—at home.

Where getting a tree meant a trip to the woods on the family farm and a lively debate over the merits of each person's chosen favorite. Where Grandpa's axe always made the first cut and the kids dragged the tree to the car by its trunk. Where sticky sap glued their mittens to the bark.

To her, Christmas was Minnesota. Her childhood was gift-wrapped in those warm memories of tradition, and she had planned on more of the same for her own kids. Until this move changed everything.

Instead, here they were, heading back to a new house in a new neighborhood after participating in a—different— Christmas Eve service with new people in a new church.

“I'm sorry, Roe. Tonight's program really went well. I guess I just missed our traditional sing-a-long, bell choir and candlelight vespers.”

“Different places do different things, Beth. You'll get used to it.” Roe signaled to change lanes.

“I suppose.”

“Truthfully, I think your homesickness is nothing that a good snowfall couldn't cure,” Roe teased as he eased the car toward the exit ramp.

“Well, I must admit, when we moved here this autumn and I got my first glimpse of those towering Rocky Mountains, I just assumed snowy winters were a given.” Beth looked at the dark peaks silhouetted against the clear night sky and shivered. “But all this cold weather and not a flake in sight!”

“Only in the upper elevations.” Roe pointed to Long's Peak, favored hiking destination of the locals. “There's the nearest snow and plenty of it.”

“A lot of good that does!”

“It's probably only a hour's drive to the trailhead. What do you say we head up there tomorrow with the kids and spend Christmas afternoon in the mountains?”

Beth grimaced. Spending part of Christmas Day driving to find snow didn't fit her mood, and it certainly didn't fill the mold of traditional holiday activities.

“It's not the same as shoveling sidewalks or building a snowman in the yard or making an arsenal.” She paused. “Remember the snowball fights we used to have?”

Roe and Beth grinned at each other.

“Yeah,” Roe said. “In fact, just today I was telling that nice Ben Johnston across the alley how much we'll miss the neighborhood snowball challenges we hosted in Minnesota each Christmas. He got a good chuckle when I told him it was kids against adults—and the adults usually lost.”

“That's what I want for Christmas, Roe.”

“What?”

“I want to look out the window Christmas morning and see something more than winter-brown grass. I want snow and an old-fashioned snowball fight with friends. Home
means
tradition. Is tradition too much to ask for?”

Slowing, Roe turned down Logan Drive.

“Oh, Beth, I'm sorry this move has been so rough on . . . Well, I'll be!” Roe braked in the middle of the street. “Look!”

Beth gasped. Their lawn—bare and brown only hours before—was covered with several inches of snow. The grass, the walks, the porch and the bushes all sparkled under the streetlight's glow.

“Snow, kids, snow! Wake up and look at our yard!”

Rubbing sleep from their eyes, all three kids tumbled from the car and raced to the glittery powder. Beth and Roe sat spellbound.

“I can't believe my eyes,” said Beth. “Snow! SNOW! But . . . it's only in OUR yard. How? And . . . why?”

“Who knows, Hon? But you certainly got your Christmas wish, or part of it, anyway.”

Roe pointed down the street. “Well, would you look at that!” Ben Johnston's muddied pickup—loaded with snowblowers and shovels, headlights dimmed—slipped around the corner, leaving a fine trail of white.

“And tomorrow you get the rest.” He smiled at his wife. “What do you say we revive an old snowball tradition— with a brand-new neighborhood of friends!”

Carol McAdoo Rehme

Suitable for Flaming

The hearth is the natural gathering place for family celebrations, so why not implement the warm ritual of burning the Yule log? Don't have a fireplace? Don't let that keep you from participating. Select the method that works for your family.

Traditional:

Traipse to the woodpile and select the nicest log to burn this Christmas. Embellish it with sprigs of evergreen, holly leaves or mistletoe. Tie the bundle with a burnable holiday ribbon.

Alternative:

Drill a shallow hole in a short log and fill it with a scented candle. Decorate with seasonal ornaments, artificial snow or holiday ribbon.

Display your Yule log on the hearth, mantle or table until Christmas Eve. Then, with great ceremony, light or burn your log, sing “Deck the Halls,” (which mentions the Yule log), and enjoy the whimsy and wonder of gazing into the flames.

Ancient tradition claims that saving some cooled embers to start your Yule log fire the following year will bring good fortune and, perhaps, even miracles into your home.

Who Is Jack Canfield?

Jack Canfield is one of America's leading experts in the development of human potential and personal effectiveness. He is both a dynamic, entertaining speaker and a highly sought-after trainer.

He is the author and narrator of several bestselling audio and videocassette programs, including
Self-Esteem and Peak Performance,
How to Build High Self-Esteem, Self-Esteem in the Classroom
and
Chicken
Soup for the Soul—Live.
He is regularly seen on television shows such as
Good Morning America, 20/20
and
NBC Nightly News.
Jack has coauthored numerous books, including the
Chicken Soup for the Soul
series,
Dare to Win
and
The Aladdin Factor
(all with Mark Victor Hansen),
100 Ways to Build Self-Concept in the Classroom
(with Harold C. Wells) and
Heart at Work
(with Jacqueline Miller).