The Book of Christmas Virtues (2 page)

No matter how it's packaged, joy is a love song to life. Its lilting melody weaves a harmonious medley of giving, doing, having, being, experiencing and trying. It resonates on notes of optimism, geniality and delight. It feeds your soul.

You'll recognize joy—the famed bluebird of happiness—when you invite it in and offer it a shoulder to perch on.

You can discover it through sacrifice and service or in creativity and purpose. You can find it in tender moments and in exhilarating events. You might recognize it in the promise of a day's dawning or the satisfaction of twilight's final nod.

But is it possible to hold on to that sense of joy? Of course. Although joy is often described as fleeting, it is possible to create it again and again. George Bernard Shaw once proclaimed, “The joy in life is to be used for a purpose. And I want to be used up when I die.”

So invest yourself in a purpose this holiday season: your time, your energy, your talents, your emotions. Spend yourself freely . . . and discover joy.

Homestead Holiday

I had so wanted to celebrate Christmas at the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, surrounded by the love of the dear relatives who had labored to preserve it. A delightful throwback to an era of simplicity—no phones to jangle nerves, no electric lights to glare in eyes—the place veritably shouted,
“Christmas!”
But first things first; we had to settle in.

“Let's make it easier for our folks to get up,” I said to my cousins on our first morning at the old homestead.

We drew well water in tall buckets and carried split logs chin high. Soon a kettle whistled on the cast-iron stove. In each bedroom, we poured warm water into the pitchers of porcelain wash sets.

Our efforts paid off. Our sleepy-eyed parents climbed out of Victorian beds to chat over cinnamon rolls and coffee.

We girls cranked the Victrola in the parlor and pedaled the empty spinning wheel in the hall. Everything about this place was a novelty. We read century-oldmagazines in the barn and memorized epitaphs in the family cemetery.

We bathed in the fresh waters of Connor Pond and shared teen secrets on the two-holers at “the end of the line.” We purchased a block of ice for the antique box in the shed and even scrubbed down the “Grouch House” for would-be guests.

But we wanted so much more.

We wanted Christmas!

“It might be a little odd,” one cousin said.

“Sure would,” echoed the other.

“Let's ignore that,” I said.

Cross-legged on the antique bed in our upstairs hideaway, we plotted how we could pull it off.

“We'll handcraft decorations for the tree,” said one cousin.

“We'll pick up gifts in the village . . . even a holiday meal,” chimed the other.

“And we'll send out invitations,” I said.

The wide plank flooring quivered under our combined energy.

On stationery found in the parlor desk, we composed rhymed couplets penned in our best script. Convinced Keats would be proud, we lost no time in posting them.

We begged our moms to pick up a few items at the grocery store—okay, maybe not a turkey, but how about a holiday brunch with eggs Benedict and a fresh fruit cup? “And don't forget maple syrup for waffles!”

We popped corn in a pan and strung garland, yet so much was missing. There were no ornaments to be found anywhere. We poked through brush along a New England stone wall and fell upon a treasure trove of cones, seedpods and nuts. We tied loops around red-berry sprigs and green crabapple stems. Scissors soon fashioned white paper into snowflakes and tinfoil into a star.

Thoughts of the tree encouraged us—but the mailbox didn't. Every afternoon, we rode down the mountain to check it. Still no reply to our invitations—even though the event was upon us.

On the morning of the anticipated day, our folks distracted us with an excursion to the mountains. We arrived home late and tired.

Dad went in first to light the kerosene lamps. When the windows were aglow, we girls ambled upstairs. We stopped at the sound of bells.

“What is it?” I craned over the stairwell.

“Ho, ho, ho,” resounded in the distance.

“It's
got
to be Chesley!” Dad said, lamp in hand, as he peered out the front door into the darkness.

Chesley and Barbara,
I thought.
The guests are arriving!

I jumped down the stairs in time to see a fully regaled Santa leap into the lamplight. A prim Mrs. Claus joined him by the house.

“You didn't think it was a dumb idea, after all!” we girls shouted.

“Oh, we thought it was wonderful,” they said.

Such gameness of spirit spurred us cousins to action. We chopped down a forest fir, placed it in the sitting room and smothered it with our handmade treasures.

Before the crackling fire in the hearth, Mrs. Claus rocked while Santa distributed our carefully selected gifts. Chocolate mints, knickknacks and a dainty handkerchief . . . even Roy Tan cigars for Dad.

The impossible had actually happened: a farmhouse Christmas . . .
in August!

True, this was a most uncommon New Hampshire Christmas. Instead of frost nipping at our toes, perspiration beaded our foreheads. Rather than windows iced shut, fragrant breezes blew past. In place of quietly falling snow, a chorus of crickets performed. Where snowsuits would have hung, swimsuits dried on pegs.

Yet the love of celebrating, which knew no season, abounded. And therein lay the joy.

Margaret Lang

With Gladness and Glue

While Christmas shopping in a jewelry store, I discovered a clearance table of gilded ornaments. Detailed and delicate in design, each had a personality all its own. I sorted among the hundreds of filigreed masterpieces, picked out a few and took them home.

Deciding they were much too pretty to disappear among the clutter of a Christmas tree, I used them instead to decorate small eight-inch wreaths. When I stood back to admire my handiwork, a thought crossed my mind:
Wouldn't some of our family and friends like these, too?

I raced back to the jewelry store to discover that the stack of ornaments had been reduced even further. This time I bought dozens as I thought of the many people who might enjoy one for the holidays.

Armed with a glue gun and bright ribbons of every color, I eagerly began my creative project. The wreaths multiplied like measles and dotted every flat surface in our house. For days, my family tiptoed around, elbowed their way through and slept among the miniature masterpieces.

While I tied dainty bows and glued golden ornaments, my mind wandered to Christmases past, and I pondered how special each had been. I thought about others perhaps not so fortunate. Some people in our community didn't have a family to share the joy of Christmas. Some didn't bother with holiday decorations. Some never left their homes to celebrate the season.

I nodded my head in determined satisfaction. They would be at the top of my list to receive a little wreath. My husband joined me in the plan, and we set out together to put it into action.

We visited the aged. We visited the widowed. We visited the lonely. Each one was thrilled with our cheery stops and immediately hung our small gifts—often the only signs of celebration in their homes.

After several days, I realized we had made and given almost two hundred wreaths. Decorated with love and delivered with delight, they filled many homes and hearts with the joy of Christmas.

And I came to the simple realization that
we
were actually the ones who received the greatest blessing that year. We had found
our
Christmas spirit in the doing.

Nancy B. Gibbs

Decking the Halls with
Balls of Jolly

A number of years ago, NBA All-Star Cedric Ceballos hosted a free basketball clinic for a couple hundred youngsters. At the end of the event, Ceballos—then playing for the Los Angeles Lakers—handed out half a dozen autographed basketballs.

One lucky recipient, a boy about eleven years old, hugged Ceballos and then hugged the ball. But what really touched me was this: As I left the gym, I saw the boy outside shooting baskets on one of the blacktop courts . . . using his autographed ball.

While the other handful of lucky kids surely went home and put theirs in places of honor, this boy had already dribbled, shot and worn off Ceballos's valuable signature.

Curious, I asked the boy why he hadn't taken the ball straight home.

“I've never had my own ball to shoot with before,” he explained happily.

It made me wonder about similar kids—kids who don't have their own basketballs to shoot, their own soccer balls to kick, their own footballs to throw or their own baseballs to play catch. And so it was that I began using my regular sports column to ask readers to step up to the plate. I started an annual ball drive for underprivileged children.

Great gifts, with no batteries required and no breakable parts.

The first year, about one hundred were donated. That just got the ball rolling, so to speak. The next year's total was 363, then 764 and 877.

Which brings us to this past Christmas. And Briana.

After reading my Thanksgiving Day column announcing “Woody's Holiday Ball Drive,” Briana responded like an All-Star point guard. The nine-year-old dished out assists like a mini–Magic Johnson. In notes attached to her generous gifts for other kids, she wrote, in neat printing that would make her teacher proud, a message that should make her parents even prouder:

I saw your wish list in the paper and I wanted to
help. I know how important it is to help others. So this
year I saved money by collecting recycables (sic). So
here I give to you: 5 basketballs, 2 footballs, 2 soccer
balls, 1 volleyball, 1 bag of baseballs, 1 bag of softballs.
I hope this helps.

Happy holidays,
Briana Aoki

Her generosity kicked off a heartwarming campaign of kids helping kids in need.

As a result, ten-year-old Sarah and eight-year-old Mitch emptied “The Jar.” Kept on the family's fireplace hearth, it collected pocket change, some chore money and even coins found in the laundry. Sarah chose a soccer ball and Mitch selected a football to buy and share.

Professional tennis players Mike and Bob Bryan, identical twins, served up a donation of twenty-five footballs and one hundred top-of-the-line basketballs. Others stepped forward, too.

The life lesson here is this: A lot of great kids find joy in giving and joy in sharing—loose change in a jar, wages for chores, allowance money, coins from recycling—just to make a difference. A big difference. A difference of . . .

397 basketballs
218 footballs
178 playground balls
161 soccer balls
104 baseballs
29 softballs
26 cans of tennis balls
14 volleyballs

GRAND TOTAL: 1,127 balls—and smiles
—for kids in need this
Christmas morning.

Woody Woodburn

The Debut

“Mom, where's the roll of butcher paper?” JoAnn asked as she rummaged in the kitchen drawer for scissors and tape. Off she trotted down the hall, clasping the items.

Gathered for our family Christmas party, all three generations had finished eating. Now, the little cousins eagerly left parents and grandparents behind to begin preparations for the annual nativity pageant. Sequestered in the far recesses of the house, the youngsters plotted behind closed doors.

Grateful for peace and quiet, we adults basked in the festive glow of the fire, nibbled remnants of our delicious dinner and continued chatting. We felt no need to hurry our budding geniuses, tickled that they found delight in planning this project together.

An occasional burst of dialogue erupted through the open door as first one then another child was dispatched on a crucial errand. A jar of craft paint, then a wide paintbrush disappeared into their inner sanctum. Intense forays commenced throughout the house as armloads of towels, bathrobes, scarves, bed sheets, belts and jewelry joined their stash. Giggles and whispers intensified as their conspiracy continued.

We knew the project must be coming together when they mounted an intense search for bobby pins, large safety pins, paper clips, even clothespins—anything to hold costumes and props in place. Everyone's anticipation heightened as the cast and crew finished their preparations.

When the designated spokesperson called for our attention, a hush fell over the room.

Two stagehands wrestled a long, butcher-paper poster and, with copious lengths of tape, secured it to the wall. Emblazoned in bright paint it read:

Bethlehem Memorial Hospital

The makeshift stage became a busy reception area of the hospital. One bossy cousin greeted newcomers, summoned aides and kept employees scurrying. Instead of halos, “nurse-angels” wore folded-paper caps with red painted crosses. They assessed each case, wielding their make-believe stethoscopes and thermometers before sending patients off to imaginary treatments.