Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

by Jack Canfield

  The next morning, on the school bus, I noticed my friend, Letisha Robinson, with fresh eyes. She climbed aboard with her brother, Jerome, who played on the varsity football team with my brother. Two more sisters got on while four other siblings, much younger, waved from their dilapidated stoop. It looked as though a good wind could easily topple their wooden house. Not one of them wore a winter coat, and a chill hung in the air. As a matter of fact, I recognized Letisha’s dress as the same one she’d worn yesterday and the day before. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember ever seeing her in anything else.

  At dinner, I asked my parents about Letisha’s family.

  “I hear that her mother worked at the factory. You know, the one that just closed down,” Mom said.

  “What does her father do?” I asked.

  “Not much, honey.” Dad looked me in the eyes. “He’s an alcoholic. Been in and out of jail. He probably drank up all the money his wife was able to pull together.”

  “I wonder what Christmas will be like at their house, if they’ll even get any Christmas presents at all.” My brother, Gary, was much nicer than me. As I plotted buying my dream coat, he thought about others.

  I excused myself to do my homework, but really I wanted to exit because I felt uncomfortable—convicted, even. I didn’t want to entertain the idea that was tugging at my mind so I tried to divert myself with geometry. It didn’t work.

  That night I dreamed about Letisha’s family sitting around a barren tree on Christmas morning. I saw the little kids traipsing through the snow, looking forlornly in our windows and shivering, while we opened gift after gift. When I awoke, I was certain of what I had to do, of what Jesus would want for me.

  At breakfast, I took a deep breath and announced my plan to my family. It turned out I wasn’t the only one who was thinking that way. It almost seemed as though they were waiting for me to come around. We mapped out our strategy.

  Gary and I were to observe every kid in Letisha and Jerome’s family, noting their ages, gender, and approximate size. Christmas Eve was only two days away, so we had no time to waste. After school, we pooled our information and counted out our savings. My brother and I wanted to buy these gifts with our own money.

  Gary went shopping on Saturday for a football for Jerome and toys for the younger Robinson kids. I bought a basic but warm outfit for each of the eight kids with my discount at Atkinson’s. Eight outfits for the price of one coat. That took some of the sting out of giving up my dream coat. Mom and Dad added mittens and scarves to our stash, enough for the children and their parents, too.

  I wrapped the gifts and made them shine, adding tags that read “To Letisha” or “To Toddler Boy.” Each tag was signed “Someone who loves you.” Gary stuffed the gifts into a huge box and loaded it into our station wagon.

  On Christmas Eve, we went to our church as usual, lighting our white candles and singing about the “wondrous gift that’s given.” I thought about the precious gift of the baby born so long ago, and I felt that warm and wonderful peace wash over me. Our gift was puny in comparison, but somehow it seemed holy on this most blessed of nights.

  We went home to have hot chocolate in front of the twinkling tree lights, and wait. This time we weren’t waiting for Santa. It wouldn’t do to go to Letisha’s until we were certain everyone would be in bed. At midnight we donned our warmest coats and all four of us piled into our station wagon. Dad turned the car lights off as we approached their house, soundlessly, listening for any noise coming from their direction.

  It was safe. Gary, the fastest of us, grabbed the box and took off across the yard to deposit it on the stoop. I couldn’t see him in the pitch blackness, but I could hear. A dog’s sharp bark pierced the air. A big German Shepherd started rounding the corner of the house and Gary’s footsteps quickened their pace. I held the car door open for him and he slid in just in front of the dog’s bared teeth.

  The first day back to school after Christmas break, Gary winked at me from his seat on the bus, willing me to keep my poker face as we neared the house of our midnight run. Jerome, Letisha, and the other six kids were all dressed in the clothes we’d given them. Every outfit seemed to fit as though it had been designed with that particular child in mind.

  It’s been many years now since that Christmas Eve, and I have not forgotten it. I hope I never will. After months of pining over my dream coat, I never missed it after all. Looking back, I can’t even remember exactly how it looked. But Letisha Robinson’s beautiful smile as she proudly wore her new sweater is permanently etched in my memory. I learned the joy of giving that Christmas.

  ~Taryn R. Hutchison

  Just Tell Us You Love Us

  Silent gratitude isn’t much use to anyone.

  ~G.B. Stern

  Most of my life I’ve been the type of person who listened to the opinion of others and if they said something couldn’t be done, I accepted their decision and went about what I needed to get done that day. That was before an event that happened last year just before Christmas. At the time I was standing at the counter in a gift shop signing a copy of my latest book, Christmas in the Maritimes, when I overheard a lady say, “I’m sending this to my nephew in Afghanistan and I know he’ll love it. When he’s finished, he’ll pass it around to the other Maritimers in his unit.”

  “Other Maritimers in his unit,” her words kept repeating themselves over and over in my mind. Gradually an idea began to take shape. I shared my idea with a friend but she said, “You’d have to raise the money. You’d have to know where to ship the books. You’d... forget it, there’s no way!” But this time I wasn’t about to take “no” for an answer. The news last year was full of stories about the conditions our troops were serving under and I thought if this little book would mean something to the members serving our country, then I was going to at least try to find a way to send some copies to them.

  My first step was to write to Roger Cyr, a friend who had been in the air force before his retirement. I asked him if he thought the book would be welcomed. He wrote back right away encouraging me to pursue this idea. He also said, “I spent four years in Europe during the Cold War serving with our NATO troops plus a tour as a peacekeeper in Africa (Congo). One of the things we treasured the most was a Canadian newspaper or a word from home.”

  The more I thought on it, the more I was convinced stories from home would be such a morale booster. I began investigating the possibilities and started by making phone calls, doing web searches and writing e-mails. However, the results from my inquiries only served to add to my earlier doubts. It was fast becoming evident that it wasn’t a workable project. My major stumbling block was the fact that I’d never done anything like this before, so I was unfamiliar with all the rules and considerations involved in sending something to our troops. I discovered parcels could only be sent if you knew the specific name and address of the unit and the name and number of the person receiving the gift. My friend was right. This idea might have been a good idea but it was fast becoming a dream that would never be fulfilled.

  Somewhere along the way I read an article about another Elaine who was able to help the troops through her project “Operation Wish.” She didn’t listen to the “no’s” and her story encouraged me to press on.

  Finally, on a Wednesday, November 15th I made contact with Margaret Reid, Coordinator of Deployment Services of 14 Wing Greenwood. Her response was immediate. She wrote, “Great idea! Definitely possible from my perspective anyway. We’re doing our packages to the troops on Nov 21st. I guess the question now for you is if you can make the Christmas miracles happen by next Tuesday?”

  I called Nimbus, my publisher. “Do you have 140 books in stock?” (They were waiting for more books from the printers and I wasn’t sure if they had enough to fill their immediate orders.) The managing editor assured me they could fill my order if I could raise the funds needed to purchase the books by Friday at 3:00 PM. I needed to meet that deadline in order to leave enough time for the boo
ks to be delivered from Nimbus’ warehouse to Greenwood in time to be packed with the parcels on Tuesday.

  I wrote back, “Dear Ms. Reid, I believe this Christmas miracle will happen!”

  My idea was to ask the community (through contacts with the media) to get involved and sponsor the books as a way of showing the men and women serving our country they were being remembered. Two reporters agreed to help, but before the afternoon was over I ran into another snag. I didn’t have a business address where people could drop off the money and my telephone inquiries to this point suggested setting up an account for this purpose would take some time. The deadline for getting the story out in Thursday’s papers was fast approaching. Around four o’clock I remember thinking that Ms. Reid said I needed a Christmas miracle, so why not ask God? I did. Within minutes I had an unexpected phone call from someone I’d talked to earlier in the day.

  “Elaine, I was touched by what you want to do. You’re going to get your Christmas miracle. I’ll cover the cost!”

  Two days later the books arrived in Greenwood in time to be packed in the Christmas parcels being made up for 140 troop members of 14 Wing Greenwood who were serving our great country, Canada, in various places throughout the world.

  As I wrote my Christmas letters last year I thought of a poem I’d received from a friend. In the poem, the author asked a young soldier who had left a wife and child at home to serve his country, what he could give him for Christmas—money or a feast? The young soldier’s answer was, “Just tell us you love us.” When I sent the books it was my prayer that the small gift of stories and memories from home would do just that—tell 140 soldiers who were serving their country that I loved them.

  ~Elaine Ingalls Hogg

  Angel in a Chocolate Shop

  Anyone can be an angel.

  ~Author Unknown

  As I hustled and bustled into each and every store, trying to find last-minute Christmas gifts for friends and family, I could feel the stress of the holidays upon me. Life would change after I walked into a high-end chocolate shop where not even the fancy silk bows around the boxes could have prepared me for the day’s unraveling.

  What struck me was an older African American woman, who gently caressed the glass with her finger. She looked as if she was dressed in her Sunday best, with coiffed hair and shoes that matched her purse. There was something about her that made me hover closely. I went behind her and made motions with my hands to the salesperson—signing that she looked as if she was going to cry. As if I gave a director’s signal, the actress behind the counter asked on cue, “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Oh,” the lady sighed. “This was what my husband bought me each and every Christmas,” pointing to the caramel-filled milk chocolates. “This is my first year without him. We were married for forty-nine years. My husband was a good man and he bought me caramels every Christmas, knowing how much I loved them.” Her voice was soft, her finger shook a little, but her words floated on air. “At first, it was just a couple, one for him, one for me—’cause we didn’t have much money. But at the end, he’d have them wrapped in those fancy boxes. And then he’d give me a certain number and make it special, like when we added our first baby, I got three that year and then oh, it was up to quite a bit with my own children, grandchildren and grandbabies.” She chuckled.

  “We would have been married fifty years this Christmas.” My heart sank. It was as if she turned the faucet on in her soul and all the love and memories came pouring out. It was difficult for me to hold back my own tears as her story touched me deeply.

  She turned and looked at me with a smile and looked back at the glass and quietly said, “I still remember my first Christmas when he gave me two. It was just as special the first time as it has been all these years.” She looked down and said in a whisper, “I’d give anything to just have him again.” She wiped a tear from her face with a handkerchief she kept tucked in her sleeve. She gently put the cloth back into her purse and walked out of the store.

  The saleslady just looked at me and said, “Wow.”

  I told the saleslady that I wanted to buy the lady a bag of chocolates with caramel in them and asked if she would be willing to run down the mall to give them to her if I kept an eye on the store, knowing I could sneak out the other direction and the lady would never see me. She loved the idea and charged me only 50% for the bag (which was very expensive, mind you).

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked.

  “Tell her an angel sent them.”

  She ran away with the bag with so much glee in her step and returned, face wet from crying.

  “That was such a sweet thing you did for her,” she said to me. “What a gift of love from a stranger.”

  “No,” I said, matter-of-factly. “The truth is, her story of devoted love was a gift to me.” I had been rushing around to buy meaningless gifts for a holiday that had become more commercial than heartfelt. That lady had made me slow down and think about the people I loved and the ways I could show them how I felt through thoughtful gifts and gestures.

  The true Christmas angel that day in the mall was not me, but a beautiful woman who passed through my life at just the right time—in a chocolate shop, in the middle of the mall.

  ~Cheri Eplin

  A Christmas Prayer Answered

  I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.

  ~William Shakespeare

  My husband, Chris, joined the Marine Corps in April of 2007. Shortly after, we were stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina—seven hours from our home in Virginia. Our first Christmas in the United States Marine Corps was bittersweet, knowing that Chris would be deploying less than a year later and we’d be separated during the holidays. So we stretched our last few dollars to the limit to make the trip home.

  Unfortunately, we realized once we were there we would be about a tank of gas short of making it home and he would have to either suck up his pride and ask someone in his family for money, which he refused to do, or try to make it home with what we had.

  On Christmas night, after spending the day with his family, we stopped at a gas station to top off the tank and began to pray this would carry us home. My husband was in uniform and he began to fill the tank. My car, as is the case with many Marine wives’ cars, is decorated heavily with United States Marine stickers and quotes.

  To our surprise, a middle-aged lady at the next pump over came up to Chris. “Are you a Marine?” the lady asked him. With his head held high and his shoulders back, “Yes Ma’am,” was his reply. She proceeded to thank him for his service to his country and to ask him questions about where he was stationed and if he was from around this area originally.

  At the conclusion of their conversation, she thanked him again and insisted on paying for his gas. She handed my husband forty dollars. Although he asked, the kind woman would not give her name or any information to contact her.

  She walked away toward the front of the store where my mother-in-law was coming out from paying for her gas. “Is that your boy?” was her question to Chris’s mom.

  Smiling, she answered, “Yes, that’s my son.”

  “I want to thank you also for allowing and supporting your son to serve in the military,” she said. God smiled on us for our first Christmas in the Marine Corps and sent an angel to answer our prayers. I only wish that woman knew how much she affected my husband and me with her selfless gift.

  ~Carrie Morris

  It’s the Thought that Counts

  A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs—jolted by every pebble in the road.

  ~Henry Ward Beecher

  By 11:30, a second UPS driver sprinted to our porch clutching yet another box. It was looking like UPS had relocated their local distribution facility to my driveway. With just a few days left until Christmas, I began to sense Barbara’s and my “no-gift agreement” was off.

  Back in November, my fiancée and I had decided that new granite kitchen counter
tops and appliances would be our Christmas gifts to one another. I went along with the plan. After all, lugging fifteen-pound granite samples into our house for several days was considerably less painful than strolling zombie-like through the women’s department at Macy’s in search of the girlie things she would delight in receiving for Christmas. I was off the hook.

  How could she be so incredibly thoughtful every Christmas? How could I be so predictably clueless when it came to buying a few nice gifts for the woman I love? How naive was I to think I could avoid perfume counters and jewelry cases this year? I hoped these daily deliveries were for Barbara’s kids or grandchildren, but somehow, I knew some of those boxes would be for me.

  At 3:35, a FedEx truck delivered yet another reminder that I was probably getting more than a slab of gold-flecked granite and a dual-fuel oven in my stocking. The stark realization that I might be the only one opening presents on Christmas morning caused a sudden rush of blood to my face. At fifty-eight, I hadn’t experienced a hot flash. Until now.

  The pressure was on and I needed to produce a couple of tasteful gifts with about ninety-six hours to get it done. I immediately thought of the online pajama company I had heard about on the radio earlier that morning.

  “Guaranteed Christmas delivery,” echoed through my brain. These ads were directed at men like me. I was familiar with their line of PJs and knew I could find just the right set for Barbara to slip into while I opened the gifts that now lined the front hallway of our home.

  I browsed and browsed. Then I pointed and clicked some more. “Sugarplum flannel.” Nice, but flannel isn’t too sexy. “Sweet snowflake thermal pajamas.” Even I know this is not the best choice for a menopausal woman. “Red Seduction Chemise.” Nice! But would Barb question my motivation for such a selection? The search continued.