For the Love of Christmas

by Jeanne Bice

  With trembling fingers, I hung the little cottage in its usual place of honor. I had my centerpiece. The tree was now perfect.

  In the ensuing years, I have come to appreciate and love the meaningful traditions of the Jewish holidays my family now celebrates. Hanukkah is my favorite. Lighting candles every evening for eight days encourages introspection, while the joyous songs and games provide an opportunity for familial closeness.

  But there’s another reason I so love this festival of lights—it just happens to fall near Christmas.

  Glad Tidings of Great Joy:

  Heartfelt and Holy Moments

  Drawing Names

  By Nancy Edwards Johnson

  Chilling winds swept down the Blue Ridge Mountains, frosting windows behind the holly sprigs Mrs. Horton had arranged in our first grade classroom. She finished decorating and turned to us. “Kids, Christmas is coming soon. Who wants to draw names?”

  “Me! Me! Me!” rang out while hands shot up.

  Even Alfred raised his hand. Alfred, who wore dirty, ragged overalls to school although the other boys wore jeans. Miss Horton had told us his mother was sick and asked everybody to be nice to him.

  “Aw, Alfred, you won’t get to draw names,” said Helen.

  Mrs. Horton clapped her hands firmly and frowned. “Shhhh, Helen. That’s enough. Now everyone get your permission slips signed so you can draw. We’ll set a limit of fifty cents.”

  Not used to being scolded, Helen dropped her head until her long golden hair, so pretty even the teachers talked about it, covered her face.

  The bell rang. Brenda snatched the white fuzzy cap with its rabbit-fur pom-poms from my head. “You can wear it again tomorrow,” she promised.

  The teacher turned to me. “Honey, wearing that cap all day and then taking it off to go outside makes the bitter cold hurt worse.”

  “That’s okay, Miss Horton. When I get off the bus, I wear my headscarf the rest of the way home.” My grandma had given me a frayed silk scarf I carried in my coat pocket. Besides, wearing Brenda’s cap all day made it worth the extra chill. It was even worth putting up with Alfred.

  Alfred used to sit behind Helen, pulling her hair with his grubby hands. When she complained to the teacher, Mrs. Horton asked me to trade seats with Helen. So now Alfred pulled the pom-poms that dangled down the back of my head. Though I hated his teasing, I didn’t complain. Instead, Brenda noticed and swapped seats with me.

  My excitement built at the idea of drawing names as the school bus bumped down the washboard road and screeched to a halt in front of the little country store. I rushed up the aisle and awaited my turn to hop down the steps. I crossed the road with nary a thought of anything except getting home. Even the chilling winds blasting down the face of Fancy Gap Mountain didn’t slow me down.

  By the time I ran the half mile home and pushed through the weathered wood door of our two-room farmhouse, I was struggling for breath. Mama pulled me close to the potbellied stove and stoked logs until the fire roared to life. “Now tell me what your hurry’s about.”

  She looked doubtful when I told her about drawing names. “How much are you supposed to spend?”

  “Just fifty cents, Mama, and I’ll get a present, too.”

  My excitement at the prospect must have glowed brighter than my chapped cheeks, because Mama’s eyes never left my face. Even at six years old, I knew she was thinking how hard fifty cents came.

  “Maybe we can figure something out,” she finally said. “Just remember, though. You might give something good and get nothing much in return.”

  I was willing to take the chance. I couldn’t wait to draw names.

  Next morning Mrs. Horton put slips of paper in a bag and told each of us to pull one out. “Don’t tell anyone but me whose name you got. I’ll make a list in case anyone forgets. You keep it a secret.”

  But not everyone did.

  “Whose name you got, Alfred?” someone asked.

  “Helen’s,” he sang out with a grin. Helen crinkled her nose.

  The last morning of school before holiday vacation, the air on the bus had an electric buzz. Every hand held a present. I’d gotten lucky. Grandma had brought us two boxes of chocolate-covered cherries. Mama let us eat from one box but saved the other for my gift exchange. Alfred clutched a battered package, paper dirty and torn.

  One by one, Mrs. Horton distributed presents according to the list on her desk. When she picked up Alfred’s torn package, she had the attention of every child in the room. In her other hand, she held a soft-looking package wrapped in bright tissue paper and yarn.

  Mrs. Horton walked toward me and paused. I waited, half expecting Alfred’s present. Instead, she held out her other hand. I reached for the package and squeezed. It felt as furry as a fuzzy cap!

  Then Mrs. Horton stopped in front of Helen’s desk. At first Helen drew back like she wouldn’t take Albert’s gift, but she finally held out her hand.

  She ripped the torn paper away to expose an old battered doll, a mop-headed imitation of Raggedy Ann. I remembered seeing the same doll at the beginning of school. Alfred’s sister had carried it around, crying and hugging it under her chin. It was dirty and ragged even then.

  Helen stared at the doll for the longest time. Then her face crumpled and tears streamed down her chin.

  Alfred looked like he’d been slapped. He blinked rapidly.

  Mrs. Horton reached over to me, “Honey, would you trade presents with Helen?”

  I hesitated a long minute before I grudgingly held out my unwrapped gift to Helen. Brenda slipped under the teacher’s arm. “Please, Mrs. Horton, let her keep it. I brought that gift. Helen has no need for it. She already has one like it.”

  Brenda offered Helen the nicely wrapped exchange present she hadn’t yet opened and reached for the doll. She hugged it tightly under her chin.

  Alfred let out a sigh I could almost feel. A smile tickled the corners of his mouth and quickly spread into a grin.

  I hurried home that evening, loving the way the furry pom-poms of my brand new hat tickled as they swung in the wind. I told Mama how I almost lost it for the dirty Raggedy Ann. “Mama, Alfred’s sister really loved that doll.”

  “Yes, but she loves Alfred, too. When he didn’t have ­anything else to give, she let him take the doll.”

  “But why did Brenda want it?”

  “I don’t suspect she really did.” Mama slipped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “But, young as she is, Brenda truly knows a gift from the heart when she sees one.”

  Unto You a Child Is Born

  By Helen Colella

  “This year,” I announced, “Andy will attend Christmas service with us instead of going to the nursery.” Some family members murmured that he wasn’t old enough. Not old enough to understand the solemnity of the occasion. Not old enough to grasp the meaning of the occasion. Not old enough to sit still.

  But I felt that my five-year-old son was ready. “He’s going,” I insisted.

  When he entered St. Peter’s Church, Andy pointed. “Look, Dad, green wreaths, like the ones at our house.”

  We made our way down the aisle.

  “Look, Mom, red Christmas flowers like the ones at our house.”

  Because I didn’t want him to miss anything, we slid onto the front row pew. Andy immediately spotted the life-sized Nativity scene at the altar.

  “Wow, a big manger, almost like the one at our house.”

  Shimmering candles cast a warm, calming glow throughout the service. Andy quietly sat and listened to the story of the Nativity, to the angelic voices of the choir, and to enthusiastic parishioners singing the Christmas hymns.

  So far so good, I thought, impressed when my son even seemed to listen to the priest. After the final blessing, Andy
asked if we could get closer to the altar.

  He studied the holy scene and pointed. “There’s Baby Jesus in the manger. And there’s Mary and Joseph kneeling next to him.” Then he named each animal in the stable. He mooed like a cow, baaed like a sheep, bleated like a camel. He even brayed like a donkey. His sound effects were crisp, clear—and loud enough to elicit the grins of others who lingered.

  Andy pointed again at the figures. “Three wise men with gifts for Baby Jesus.”

  I nodded. “Did you like being at the ‘big people’ service?”

  “I liked it fine, but . . .” A small frown pinched his brows.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why didn’t anyone wish Jesus happy birthday?”

  “Would you like to do that?” Dad asked.

  Andy nodded and leaned toward the crèche. “Happy birthday,” he called out.

  Before anyone could comment, he looked at me and frowned a second time. “What’s wrong, now?” I asked.

  “Why didn’t the choir sing the birthday song?”

  “Well,” his dad questioned, “would you like to do that, too?”

  Andy nodded and sang “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you” as loud as his young voice could project. When he finished, his smile widened in total satisfaction. Andy beamed at the sudden spurt of applause from those who had gathered around the manger scene, drawn by his sincere performance.

  Obviously pleased with the attention—and just as obviously uninhibited—free-spirited Andy turned to the growing crowd at the altar. He opened his arms, extended palm up, praise-fashion, and asked, “Why don’t we all sing the birthday song?”

  Who could refuse an invitation like that on Christmas Day?

  Enthusiastic voices soon filled St. Peter’s Church, lifted in a jubilant rendition of the familiar children’s song. By the pure joy on Andy’s face, I knew my young son did, indeed, understand the true meaning of the occasion. And, with innocent simplicity, he managed to remind us all as we celebrated that Christmas Day.

  “Happy birthday, Baby Jesus. Happy birthday to you.”

  The Red Bike

  By J. Vincent Dugas

  It was a typical Christmas Eve afternoon. Lines of traffic jammed the mall parking lots, cars vying for spaces close to the building. I had finished all my family shopping and it was still early. I decided to wander the huge toy department and enjoy the childhood memories I always found there.

  After browsing aisles, making mental judgments on how toys in my day seemed so much better and more exciting than modern plastic ones, I found myself amid an array of bicycles. I slowed my pace.

  There were bikes of all sizes, colors, and types. Some had conventional pedals, some had derailleurs, and others had even more sophisticated gearing devices. As I ran my fingers along the shiny painted surfaces of those magic vehicles, my thoughts skidded to the memory of my first bike.

  I smiled a bit, thinking back to the day when my dad walked the little red bike across the road from the bicycle shop where he’d gone to use a phone. Dad had tricked me; he hadn’t needed a phone. He went in to buy the bike—a twenty-four-incher with an electric horn. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.

  I remembered how the horn battery dislodged from its clip every time I hit a bump and laughed out loud as I thought of my adventures on that magic little bike. It was a long time ago, but I recalled how hard my dad worked for the twenty-two dollars needed to buy the two-wheeler.

  I stopped to examine one that looked just like mine. Red and shiny, it had balloon tires and an electric horn. Wow! I thought. I could buy this bike now and take it home just for the pleasure of looking at it. I bent down to read the price tag: ninety-nine dollars. Not a bad price even sixty-five years later!

  Laughing to myself, I turned to continue my stroll through the store and nearly bumped into a little kid. The boy’s huge brown eyes ogled the red bike. I paused when I saw something else in his eyes, something that told another story. They held more than a child’s desire for a new possession. They held the knowledge he’d never have a bike like that, but that it surely couldn’t hurt to look,

  to . . . imagine. And in that young boy’s imagination was a world of wonder.

  My eyes shifted to the mother who stood behind the boy. She looked at her son, her moist eyes apologetic. I knew she could not afford to buy him the bike, and she knew he would not ask for it.

  The boy reached out and caressed the red paint. He sucked in a big breath of air, held it, and swallowed, then turned and smiled at his mom. “Okay, Mom,” his voice quivered, “we can go now.”

  His mother slipped an arm around her son and hugged him to her.

  Suddenly, someone called out. The voice sounded so familiar to me, and I quickly realized—it was my own.

  “Son, would you like to have that bike?” I heard myself say. But the words didn’t sound like mine; they sounded more like my father’s. “Would you like that bike for your very own? Well, you’ve got it, son. It’s yours. Merry Christmas!” I put my hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just remember, when you’re older and able, buy some other kid a bike.”

  I signaled the floor salesman to prepare the bike. After I paid for it, I walked away and out the door. My own emotions felt visible, like I was ­wearing them on the outside. After all, I had just had an encounter with my own father; I’d found him within myself.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I whispered, “for showing me exactly what to do. And thanks again, too, for my own red bike.”

  Drawn to the Warmth

  By Carol McAdoo Rehme

  My longtime friend and neighbor Lois is eighty-five. Eighty-five years young, that is. And she’s always busy. Painting the interior of her house, weeding her garden, crocheting gifts for her large, extended family—and quilting.

  “Well, not really quilting,” she says. “I search tag sales all summer long for yard goods and scrap batting and skeins of yarn. Then I cut them to size, bind the edges, and tie them in time for Christmas.”

  But, as she’s quick to point out, they aren’t even really quilts. She’s selected a smaller version to make. “Lap robes” Lois calls them.

  “Big enough to warm arthritic limbs, small enough not to tangle in the spokes of wheelchairs.” Lois smiles as she hands me this week’s supply. “They’re the perfect size for the old folks in the nursing homes.”

  That’s who this spry octogenarian sews for, the old folks.

  “What, only ten this time?” I tease as I admire the cheery patterns. “Are you slowing down or just getting lazy?”

  “Oh, but I’ve got four dozen cut out and ready to put together,” she twinkles back. “They need to be done and delivered by Christmas. I’ll have more for you on Monday.”

  And I know she will; she always does.

  Smiling, I remind her that the staff members will want to know her name so they can send her thank-you notes.

  “No.” Lois shakes her head in firm rejection of the idea. “This is just between me and God.” She points at one of the gift tags she always secures to a bound edge with a strand of bright yarn. Today’s card is a picture of Christ in flowing robes, with his hands outstretched. “Just between me and God, to bring a little warmth.”

  I take the fleece lap robes and my bag of piano music to the holiday sing-along. This one is at the Berthoud Living Center, only ten miles away.

  “More quilts,” I chant to the activity director. She reaches for them with an eagerness I’ve come to expect: each area facility admires Lois’s handiwork and contributions and disperses them where they are most needed.

  “Let’s take this one to Lucille.” The activity director pulls one from the middle, printed with dainty holly berries and slender candy canes. Lois had tied the fabric with cheery red yarn. “I hope this helps.”

&n
bsp; “Is Lucille a new resident?”

  “Going on two weeks now. She arrived worrying and complaining—and hasn’t stopped since. According to her, the expense is ‘bothersome’ and it’s too cold here, ‘always too cold.’ Lucille just can’t seem to get warm.” She gives a mighty sigh and her voice softens. “I just wish we could make the transition easier for her, help her settle in. It’s hard for her, being away from home at Christmastime.” She turns briskly into the hallway. “Maybe this will help.”

  We walk toward a room halfway down the west-wing corridor.

  “Lucille. Lucille?” We raise our voices and rap firmly at her open door to announce our presence. “Look what we have for you.”

  The ninety-six-year-old perches in her ­wheelchair like a tiny wren. She turns her head away and refuses to acknowledge us. “It’s cold in here,” she complains to the wall. “It’s cold in here and I can’t get warm.”

  “Lucille, just look. We brought something special.” I spread the small lap robe on the bed near her side. “It’s a quilt. For you.”

  “For . . . me?” Her voice is as wrinkled as her face.

  “Yes, for you.” I grin into her eyes. “Merry ­Christmas!”

  After a lengthy, doubtful pause, she looks up and asks peevishly, “How much will it cost me?”

  “Nothing,” I assure her. “It’s free, a gift. A woman named Lois made it just for you. For Christmas.”

  “A gift? You’re sure it’s not going to cost?” Lucille stretches a trembling palm to brush across the yarn’s fluff and eyes me uncertainly. “For . . . me?” I nod. And, with a tenderness belying her querulous attitude, she runs a bent finger across the small card Lois had attached to the quilt.

  Her ridged, yellowed fingernail inches along. First, Lucille traces Christ’s white robe, next his gentle face, and, at last, his outstretched arms. The full length of one, then the entire length of the other.

  And she sighs from the depths of her heart as she draws the soft Christmas quilt to her cheek. “Now, I’m warm. For the first time since coming here, I finally feel warm.”