Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

by Jack Canfield

  By day five we were having a ball and looking forward to delivering the glazed donuts symbolizing the five golden rings. The geese-a-laying and swans-a-swimming on days six and seven were hard for us but when we stumbled upon a Mother Goose book and a swan story book we felt proud of ourselves. By day eight trying to outsmart the cutest little girl ever was becoming more difficult. She was watching out her window! Bailey waited. When she finally left the window he was able to deliver the surprise for day eight... a bottle of Nestle’s Chocolate Milk and French Maid Barbie. As her love for Barbies and all things girly was obvious, day nine of ladies dancing was easy. Her gift was a ballerina Barbie. Lord’s a leaping on day ten stumped us, but what better gift to give than a frog pool toy that winds up and swims through the water. On the eleventh day, eleven pipers piping, he left a Christmas pipe cleaner craft kit.

  We had made it... day twelve had arrived and it was time to deliver the final gift and reveal his identify. For twelve drummers drumming, the best gift to give your “little sister,” especially when she doesn’t live in your house, was a drum set. Instead of drummers drumming we could hear Olivia pounding on the drums. And she started screaming with excitement and delight when she discovered it was Bailey who had been her Secret Santa. She knew that it meant he cared so much about making Christmas magical and fun for her.

  Although the age gap seems huge now, as adults I don’t think it will be so bad. And since my friend and I are secretly hoping this friendship will blossom into something more in time, I only hope his future mother-in-law can find it in her heart to forgive him (and me) for the drum set that got plenty of use by a beautiful little girl.

  ~D’ette Corona

  No Hostess Gifts Please

  Christmas is the season for kindling the fire of hospitality in the hall,

  the genial flame of charity in the heart.

  ~Washington Irving

  For the past eleven years, friends of mine have hosted a Christmas party that for the most part resembles what you might expect at any gathering of friends and family during the holiday season. There is always a wonderful assortment of good food, never an empty glass, and plenty of great company. However, the Trafford Family Christmas Party is one-of-a-kind.

  First and foremost the instructions are clear. “Please, do not bring a hostess gift.” Not that the hostess doesn’t deserve one—it’s just that long before hostess gifts were in vogue the Trafford Family asked guests to bring canned goods for the local food bank. The entrance to their home often looks like a small distribution center on the eve of December 23, but once you’re past the boxes of canned goods stacked outside it is always warm and inviting inside and filled with the promise of what is still to come.

  Secondly, you are encouraged to bring whoever happens to be staying with you during the holidays. The more generations of family you bring, the better. There have been occasions when three generations of a family can be found at the Trafford’s Party.

  Thirdly, and certainly a key factor contributing to the spirit and joy of the evening, is the music. Along with your canned goods and your relatives you are encouraged to bring an instrument. Many people bring guitars, some bring flutes, mandolins, trumpets, drums, tambourines, maracas—even the occasional penny whistle. Voices are always welcome!

  The first time my family attended, December 23, 1997 to be precise, was actually the Second Annual Trafford Party. I’m sure they had no idea they were starting a tradition that continues to bring generations of families and friends together year after year.

  I’ve known my friend Dave, the host, since I was twelve, but we had lost touch with one another for a number of years. In 1997 our families moved into the same neighbourhood and in November we received an invitation to the Second Annual Trafford Party. Having missed the first I didn’t quite know what to expect. With my wife and children joining me, I took our donation for the food bank—I had no desire to take my relatives and we would probably leave early anyway—we still had a closet full of presents to wrap. I certainly wasn’t going to take my guitar—it had been years since I’d played it.

  When we arrived, we deposited our canned goods in the appropriate bin, took the opportunity to catch up with some friends we hadn’t seen in a number of years, and were just settling in by the fire when Dave announced it was time to go caroling. While we were initially a little uncertain about what to expect, we decided to bundle everyone up (with three kids under the age of eight, this is no easy task) and accompany him along with many other brave souls who chose to venture out into the cold. That night we stood and sang Christmas carols for people who opened their doors to us. Dave played his heart out; we all sang and anyone who opened his door in our neighbourhood that night over twelve years ago remembers and will tell you how wonderful it made them feel. It was a magical night—one I will never forget.

  This year, over a decade later, the invitation arrived late in November and started with the same message as it had in years past: “No Hostess Gifts Please.” The difference this year was there was no request for canned goods. It read: “Let’s fill a stable.” The Traffords had decided to ask friends and family and their community to help provide a family in some remote part of the world with essential animals that would, in turn, allow that family and their community to sustain itself. As I reread the invitation I couldn’t help but recall the story of a baby named Jesus born over two thousand years ago in a stable surrounded by animals. A baby whose birth started a tradition that has lasted just as long and had an incredible influence on history and brought hope throughout the world.

  Each year my children, now in their late teens, start asking about the Trafford’s Christmas Party sometime just after Halloween. If the invitation for December 23 hasn’t arrived by the end of November they start to get a little antsy. Our friends Anne and Dave and their children Erin and David Jr., whether they like it or not, have created a tradition that has become one of the most important parts of my family’s and our community’s Christmas traditions.

  Like a little kid who lies awake in bed waiting for Santa, I can’t wait for tomorrow night. It’s December 23!

  By the way—my mom and dad are really looking forward to the party, a couple of cousins have arrived from Europe and will be joining us and... I’m taking my guitar!

  ~Tom Knight

  Love and a Christmas Fruitcake

  Open your heart—open it wide; someone is standing outside.

  ~Mary Engelbreit

  My foster mother stooped in front of me and slicked back my hair. “We want you looking real nice when you go to meet these people today. They’re thinking about adopting you, you know.”

  I sighed and looked over at my younger brother and sister. Even though I was only nine, I was old enough to know that this day could be the most important one of our lives. Whether we would be better off after this day, though, or worse, I had no idea.

  By any standard, our lives had already been tough. Raised by impoverished Native Americans, we had moved more times than I could count. By the time I finished second grade, I had attended seven schools. We had even lived on an Oklahoma reservation for a time. Both of our parents were alcoholics.

  We learned early in life that nothing could be counted on, that no one was dependable. Sometimes our parents would take us to the afternoon matinee at the local theater, then not return until after the final evening show was over, if then. We sat and watched the same movie over and over until the theater manager told us we had to leave. Then we’d go outside and sit on the curb until our parents finally came.

  There were already six of us when my mother went to the hospital to have another baby. Only, she came back without the child. We found out later that she had given the little girl away to someone at the hospital.

  Then my father left. We didn’t understand why. We just knew that he was gone, and I, as the oldest boy, thought it must be my fault. Why else would a father leave his family, unless the children were just terrible?

  Afte
r that, two of our sisters were taken away. We didn’t know they had been given up for adoption. We only knew that everything around us was falling apart, and we were terrified of what would happen next.

  We were headed for disaster, and it seemed that no one had the power to prevent it. All crammed into one bed, we often fell asleep crying with hunger.

  Then one day, my mother met a man who said he loved her but didn’t want a ready-made family. I don’t know if the decision was hard or easy for her, but at the end of my second-grade year, she signed us over to an adoption agency and walked out of our lives.

  Life in the foster home wasn’t too bad at first. Although we missed our mother, at least we had beds to sleep in and got three meals a day—plain, unadorned food, yes, but when you’ve gone to bed hungry as often as we had, you learned to appreciate the basics. Our foster mother was nice enough, but we soon discovered that our foster father also had a “drinking problem,” along with a violent temper.

  And now this. What could we expect to happen this day? Would the family like us? Would they want us? What if the adoptive family had “drinking problems” too? Worst of all, what if they only wanted one or two of us, but not all? I didn’t think I could stand losing any more of my family. As we bundled into the car with the adoption worker, my stomach knotted in apprehension.

  We were supposed to meet the family at a church in a small neighboring town. As we pulled into the church parking lot, I saw a man and a woman get out of a car and walk toward us. They looked nice, but I had already learned that looks could be deceiving.

  We met the people, whose names were Don and Dixie Hill. I don’t remember much that was said, but after a while, Mrs. Hill suggested that since it was almost Christmas, we should all go over to their house and have a snack. The adoption worker agreed, so we climbed into the car once again and followed the Hills to their home.

  I’ll never forget the moment I walked into that house. An intoxicatingly sweet aroma permeated the house and assaulted all my senses. What was it? My mouth watered and my stomach growled a pitiful request. Mrs. Hill looked down at me and smiled.

  “I’ll bet you’ve never had Christmas fruitcake, have you? I just baked one fresh this morning. Would you like a piece?”

  Would I? As we sat at the table and waited for our treat, I looked around the warm, comfortable house and realized I would like to live there. But life had been filled with so many disappointments already that I knew not to get my hopes up.

  Then the fruitcake was placed before me. I could see the dried fruits and nuts oozing out of the rich brown cake, and the smell was even more tantalizing now that it was so close.

  I looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Hill, who were smiling encouragingly. I looked at my younger brother and sister, who were already eating ravenously. I picked up my fork, cut a piece carefully, and slipped it into my mouth.

  I had never tasted anything so delicious in my entire life—the sweetness was beyond anything I had ever imagined. How could people who didn’t even know us share such an incredible treat with us? Surely they had important grown-up friends they could have saved this for. Each bite I took filled a need in my stomach but opened a bigger one in my heart.

  These people didn’t know how bad we were, I remember thinking. They didn’t know we had driven our own father away or that we were so terrible that our mother chose some strange man over us. They were probably just being nice because the adoption agency worker was there.

  But as our visit ended and we prepared to leave, I knew I wanted to live with this family forever. Oh, how I hoped they wanted us too!

  It turned out that they did want us—all of us. That Christmas, a childless couple in northern California opened their home and their hearts to three little Indian kids who had no concept of unconditional love.

  In the days and years to come they would teach us about Jesus, the first and best Christmas gift, and the God who loves us all, no matter what side of the tracks we come from. They gave us a home and a hope, and pointed the way to God and His eternal love. And it all started with a fresh-that-morning Christmas fruitcake!

  ~Robert Hill as told to Dawn Shipman

  The Best Gift of All

  If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.

  ~Dalai Lama

  During the holiday season, it sometimes seems like the whole world is wrapped up in presents and material possessions. Kids are writing their wish lists to Santa, adults are trying to find the “perfect gift” for their special someone, and mall parking lots are jam-packed with eager shoppers. I had always been just as guilty as the next person of harboring this fraudulent yuletide spirit, until a few years ago when my dad taught me what the holiday season is truly about.

  While my mom usually spends the twenty-four days of December leading up to Christmas stressing out about what to buy for my many aunts, uncles, and cousins, my dad has always tried to instill the spirit of giving in my brother and me. Every year, we stop by the local fire station and drop off two brand new basketballs, one from each of us, for their annual toy drive for underprivileged kids. It always makes me smile to think of the special holiday we’re giving a few kids, and I like to picture them happily dribbling their new basketballs around all year long.

  A few years ago, my dad went even further and started his own Holiday Ball Drive to collect sports balls for children. He figured sports balls don’t break, don’t need batteries, and stand a chance to last all year long. He is a sports columnist and informed the public about his project through his newspaper column. Five years later, he has collected and donated 3,257 new balls to less fortunate kids.

  I always enjoyed helping him collect, sort, and distribute the sports balls. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction to think I helped so many kids have a little-bit-brighter Christmas. So, a few years ago, following my dad’s example, I decided I would start a project of my own. I have always loved to read and write, so it was only natural that I would hold a book drive for my community. After all, toys get broken and clothes get outgrown—but the magic of books lasts forever. Think about it: have you ever met a person who doesn’t vividly remember his or her favorite book as a kid? Or someone who can’t think of at least one book, that one special book, that suddenly, for an instant, brought the world into focus, clicked his mind into gear, helped shape who he is?

  No, right? Me neither. Books are a common thread that links us all together.

  So, with my dad’s help, I passed out flyers to local bookstores and schools, and made a website (www.writeonbooks.org) with essay contests, reading lists, author interviews, and details about how to donate to my cause. That first year I collected 126 books that I then gave to the local library to distribute to underprivileged children.

  I felt a happiness brighter than all the Christmas lights in my city when I saw that one smile on the librarian’s face—a stranger’s face—as I gave her the box of books I had collected. I felt happier than any present has ever made me. Happier than I have ever felt giving my friends and family the “perfect gifts” I spent hours searching for. I didn’t know who would receive the books, but I knew they would be appreciated. I had the distinct feeling that I really helped make a positive difference—if not in the world, at least in my little community—and I tried to hold it inside me and savor it, because that is one of the best feelings in the world.

  Eight years later, I still relish that feeling. I have now collected and distributed more than 11,000 new books to underprivileged kids in my community. My annual Holiday Book Drive has not only given books to disadvantaged children—just as importantly, it has shown them people care. I have also found that many, many people want to help others, but often don’t know how. My book drive has given them a way. From a one-person effort it has evolved into an entire community of volunteers, including forty student helpers, with collection boxes at local bookstores, post offices, and fourteen area schools. I have learned that together, we can help give sad t
ales a happier storyline.

  Shortly after Christmas in January 2003, my dad was driving home from covering the Super Bowl in San Diego when his car was rear-ended by a drunk driver. Dad was driving through the parking lot on the way out of the stadium, pausing before making a right-hand turn, when the drunk driver, going sixty miles per hour, slammed into his Honda Civic—skid marks trailed back for fifty meters along the asphalt. The Honda was totaled, but blessedly Dad walked away from the terrible wreck. He did, however, have to undergo painful spinal fusion disk surgery, and still today suffers from neck pain and numbness in his fingers. Still, my family feels very fortunate that he is alive at all.

  When news about Dad’s accident spread among our hometown community, words of comfort and sympathy and prayer poured in from neighbors, friends, former teachers and classmates—even some people we had never met before but had collected balls for Dad’s ball drive or received books from my book drive. Suddenly kids who I had given books to were giving back to me, literally—cards and letters and drawings that brought tears to my eyes. When I was laying the groundwork for my foundation to give back to others, I never realized that I was also laying a safety net of friends and supporters beneath me, to help me through my own difficult or scary times.

  Indeed, while my Holiday Book Drive is a project that helps countless other people, it really is my own Christmas present to myself—and the gift I most look forward to every year. Dad taught me the old adage is true: giving really is better than receiving—and selfless giving will come back to you in ways you never would have imagined.

  ~Dallas Woodburn

  Keeping Things in Perspective

  Sometimes someone does something really small, and it just fits right into this place in your heart.