A Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas

by Jack Canfield

  The doorbell chimed at precisely six o’clock. I could always count on Wendy’s being on time. She had gotten that from her father. John hated being late for anything. Putting on a wide smile, I bustled to the door and opened it to my company. Wendy appeared to be alone. Puzzled, I peered out into the clear, wintry night but could not see anyone else on the porch. Suddenly, I heard giggling, and then in the next instant, I felt two sets of woolly arms around me, familiar and comforting.

  “How are ya’ doing, Clairey-Clairey-quite contrary?” one voice trilled. “Good to see ya, luv.”

  “Give us a kiss then, ey? Show us you’re glad to see us,” the other one boomed.

  My throat tightened; I felt the tears well up, then spill hotly down my cheeks. I was speechless. Joy and disbelief flooded through me simultaneously. Teddy and Mary-Rose were throwing their suitcases into the front hall in a noisy jumble, both speaking to me at the same time and tugging on my sleeve as they vied for my attention, just as they had when they were children. In a boisterous hodgepodge, Wendy squeezed her aunt and uncle through the narrow entryway, picking up the suitcases, and setting them aside out of the way. Her beaming face, flushed from the cold, creased in a radiant smile.

  “All the way from England, and not so much as a ‘how d’ya do’!” Teddy teased. “What do you think we should do, Mary-Rose? Maybe we should just turn around and get the next plane for Manchester, ey?”

  At last, I found my voice. I had last seen my brother and sister, fraternal twins four years my junior, when I’d gone back home to bury our dear mother. That was thirteen years ago. Of course, they had written, and there was the occasional long-distance phone call, but it was not the same as seeing them. Then, when John had died, they had sent a long, heartfelt telegram and apologized that they could not be with me. Despite my disappointment, I had understood. Manchester was far away; they had their jobs and their families, after all, and it would have cost the Earth to get to Swan River on time for the funeral. And now, incredibly, here they were. Thank the Lord, here they were! With my eyes brimming over, I untangled myself from my siblings’ arms and moved over to Wendy, who was standing quietly near the staircase that led upstairs, watching the happy reunion unfolding in front of her.

  “Wendy, dear girl of mine, did you orchestrate all of this?” I whispered.

  “No big deal, Mom,” Wendy replied.

  “Oh, my sweet girl, it’s a very, very big deal, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Now, did you bring along that delicious blood pudding you said you were going to prepare? I can’t wait to try it. I’ll bet your dad would have loved it!”

  Sharon Melnicer

  The Christmas Doll

  It was the afternoon before Christmas Eve as I stared blearily at my youngest daughter’s list. Major dental surgery two days earlier had left me swollen, in pain, and most definitely not in the holiday spirit.

  To make matters worse, a certain creative young lady had provided me with the world’s least helpful list:

  “Something red. Something old. Something you can put things in. Something weird. . . .”

  Well, you get the idea.

  After completing the massive grocery shopping necessary for an extended family gathering the next day, I was just plain tired and cranky.

  But no matter how hard it was to please my daughter, I could not let her down. Then her older sister came up with the solution. The local antique emporium was sure to have something that fit the list of criteria.

  Owned by an extremely nice couple, the place was a dusty maze packed with treasures and, well, not-so-valuable items.

  And it was absolutely the last place I wanted to go.

  Three years previously, I had left the place in tears after selling them my grandmother’s silver flatware and my treasured composition ballerina doll. That year had been difficult, and though I told myself that things are only things, it hurt to trade my remaining cherished possessions for mundane items such as electricity and food. The shame of crying in public over it only made matters worse.

  Still, after this period of time and with a grossly swollen face as a disguise, it was unlikely the owners would recognize me.

  And, sure enough, the place offered gifts for every possible taste.

  A one-eyed, stuffed baby alligator certainly qualified as “weird” in my book, while the antique red lacquered box earned points in at least two of the desired categories.

  We took our treasures to the counter. As one owner tallied and wrapped, the other studied my face. “Dental surgery,” Imuttered, wonderingwhere his usually impeccable manners had gone.

  He disappeared into the back room while I paid. But as we turned to leave, he reappeared with my old doll cradled in his arms. “We knew you didn’t want to lose her. I figured eventually you’d come back,” he said.

  Maybe it was the painkillers because I didn’t understand him at first. He held out the doll. “It’s our Christmas present to you.” Needless to say, there were hugs and tears all around, more than enough to embarrass my daughter.

  The rest of the holiday went by in a blur. Dinner was prepared, gifts opened and most forgotten. I stopped looking like a chipmunk. The holiday season was officially over.

  But that doll remains in my room, a reminder of the great and quiet kindness that lives around us every day of the year.

  Lizanne Southgate

  “Well I think wearing your daughter’s homemade Christmas tie is sweet.”

  Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. ©2007 Jonny Hawkins.

  Connecting at Christmas

  Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.

  Hamilton Wright Mabie

  On a frosty December morning, I talked with my girls, Lynsey and Laura, about God’s gift to us in Jesus. I reminded them how God gave us an undeserved gift, the hope offered to us through the birth of Christ. The pure love of our Heavenly Father who gave, without condition, continued to amaze me.

  “Then,” I challenged, “how could we not respond to him who loves us so?” I suggested doing a special family project to underscore the message of Christmas. Even though they were children, I urged them to think about selfless giving with no expectation to receive. “God uses servants of all ages,” I said.

  Lynsey, then fifteen, popped up with, “We can make a gift basket for one of the old people at church!” Living with a teen had taught me to seize and rally around any act of outward thoughtfulness, so I encouraged her idea.

  Nine-year-old Laura chimed in, “Yeah, we can put stuff together and give it to ’em for Christmas.” We all agreed that a surprise gift basket would be our family project.

  “Now, who’ll be our recipient?” I asked. Laura suggested several names of senior citizens at church. After much discussion, we settled on “Mr. Paul.”

  Paul, known in our home as “Mr. Paul,” was a cheerful, kind, rotund gent. He and his wife had a long, loving marriage, but no children. In fact, except for his wife, Mr. Paul had no living family. Each Sunday, Mr. Paul and his wife faithfully worked in the church’s sound booth recording services for the homebound. They felt it was their ministry. They also felt it was their ministry to “hush” the children chattering in the hall. Often, they were the eyes and ears of absent parents.

  But early that year, Mr. Paul’s wife had received a diagnosis of terminal cancer. Within months, his world changed as he buried his wife and partner of fifty years. We knew it’d be a particularly lonely Christmas for Mr. Paul.

  Parties, shopping, rehearsals, baking, and festive dinners filled our weeks following that family project discussion. We were busy, yet through the demanding schedule, we each thought of Mr. Paul.

  Lynsey found an attractive basket large enough to hold a multitude of tiny treasures, including lip balm, aftershave, and a package of chocolate truffles. While baking, we set aside homemade cookies and candy for Mr. Paul. On shopping trips, Laura always found an unusual keepsake and, eyes twinkling, would say, “
Mr. Paul will like this!” Then we’d tuck her chosen gift in our shopping cart. Lynsey made a Christmas card, and Dad jumped in with gift suggestions from a man’s point of view: a tie, devotional book, and wallet. Together, we came up with a variety of presents to pack in our gift basket. We imagined Mr. Paul’s reaction.

  Lynsey thought he’d cry.

  Laura said he’d laugh.

  The time spent focusing on another person gave me multiple opportunities to remind my girls of God’s gift to us—how satisfied God was in giving of his treasure. As our basket and anticipation swelled, my girls began arguing over which one would offer it. We hurriedly put in our final treats, and Laura cheerfully decorated the basket.

  Her homemade bow and carefully placed tissue paper made it a beautiful gift.

  The Sunday before Christmas arrived, and our family eagerly but gently carried the bulging basket into church.

  Lynsey and Laura both held onto the handle, each afraid the other would get all the credit. My husband and I followed close behind.

  Mr. Paul sat in his small, glass-enclosed cubicle turning knobs on a complex control panel. The girls stumbled over each other in their eagerness to get up the two steps to his level. Hearing the commotion, he turned toward them.

  When his eyes fell on the basket, my girls shouted, “Merry Christmas!” and shoved it in his direction. With a look of genuine surprise, he reached out to accept our gift. His aged arms cradled it as tears welled up in his blue eyes.

  For a moment, there was silence, but he spoke volumes through his grateful expression.

  My girls still muse over that year of our first family project when the Christmas message lived in their hearts—a gift given, a gift received.

  Brenda Nixon

  The Focus

  Last Christmas I decided to let Stephen, my four-year-old grandson, help me decorate for Christmas. We keep two sets of nativity figures, one of ivory porcelain and the other of teakwood. I took the porcelain set to the hutch in the dining area, then assigned Stephen to assemble the wooden set on a low table in the living room.

  I helped him remove the newspaper wrappings on the figurines of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, the manger, an angel, two shepherds, two sheep, three wise men, and three camels. Then I left him to arrange them as he wanted.

  In the dining room, I opened the glass door of the hutch and carefully placed the beautiful porcelain Mary, Joseph, and the baby in the center of the top shelf. I symmetrically spread shepherds and sheep on one side, and wise men and camels on the other. Then I surrounded the scene with green garlands tied with red velvet bows.

  When I turned on the light in the hutch, it illuminated the glorious scene. Satisfied, I closed the door and set about unpacking snowmen and other novelties of the season.

  When I happened to glance in the living room to see how Stephen was doing, his arrangement stopped me in my tracks.

  Stephen had placed baby Jesus and the manger in the center as I had, but he had crowded the rest of the figures— even the camels—around the manger in a tight circle. The only figures he needed to place were the two small sheep. I wondered what he would do since there didn’t seem to be any more room. Apparently, Stephen was also wondering as he stood there clapping the wooden sheep together. Then I think he must have remembered how he felt as a little boy trying to see a parade with so many adults in his way because he squeezed one sheep between a shepherd’s legs and the other between a camel and Mary. Stephen stood back and admired his work. Now everyone could see what he came there to see!

  Focus, I thought. It’s all in the focus.

  Pauline Youd

  “. . . And he was born in a stable, ’cuz there was no room for him in the church.”

  Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. © 2007 Jonny Hawkins

  Dad’s Christmas Gift

  This is Christmas: not the tinsel,

  not the giving and receiving, not even

  the carols, but the humble heart that receives

  a new wondrous gift, the Christ.

  Frank McGibben

  It is that time of year again, and I find myself caught up in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season just like the rest of the busy, last-minute shoppers. Christmas carols are softly playing over the loudspeakers in all the stores, but they can scarcely be heard over the other noises.

  “Have a good Christmas!” “No, honey, you can’t have that, and besides Santa will soon be here!” And who could forget the all-too-familiar lament, “I’m so tired of this. I can’t find anything. Everything is picked over.”

  I’m not at the mall, though, to buy last-minute gifts. I’m here to make a “deposit.” I sit for a moment and watch as the busy shoppers, families, frantic husbands, young lovers, and the occasional teenager all rush about, loaded down with bags. Some of them display bright, smiling faces, while others are wiping the sweat from their brows, cursing the fact that they decided to wear their winter coat, even though there is no snow on the ground.

  I gaze around and wonder if this creation was meant to be. Certainly, this was not part of the master plan two thousand years ago when God sent the newborn baby Jesus to redeem and save us.

  How is it that we allowed ourselves to get so caught up in the commercial aspect of this joyous holiday season?

  Oh, sure, the mall does its part by putting out the very beautiful nativity scene with the brightly colored garments, the realistic animals, the cute baby Jesus—and who could forget those interesting wise men!

  I turn my head toward this year’s nativity display and watch the little children pointing at the donkey, oohing and ahhing over the manger. It is obvious they appreciate the true meaning of Christmas at this exact moment. Many of them will take part in Christmas pageants in their own churches, while other families, unfortunately, cannot provide a Christmas with gifts and a large feast for their children. A sad reality, I find myself thinking out loud, and then I say a silent prayer for those innocent kids who may never have anyone teach them the true meaning of the holiday season.

  I look around and see that the merchants are all smiling and full of glee. Sales are down this year—people have moved to other parts of the country—but things are going great today. Yes, they are on par with last year’s sales for Christmas Eve. Again, I muse, surely this could never be God’s plan.

  I turn my attention to the other end of the mall and see one of my coworkers. She looks tired and frazzled. No wonder, I think to myself, she has been preparing for the holidays since early November. My coworker put up her tree weeks ago, and now dust is settling on the stairway garland that she painstakingly put in place with the tenacity of Martha

  Stewart. I let my mind wander back for a few moments, and I recall a conversation I had with my daughter as we left this woman’s house three weeks earlier. As we walked back to our car, Emily looked up at me and said, “Mommy, how come we don’t have our tree up yet? Won’t Christmas soon be here?”

  “Yes, honey, it will—in three more weeks.” Then I thought of the best reason to explain why our house still looked bare.

  “Darling,” I said, “your birthday is next month. I think when we take down the tree, I’ll put up balloons and streamers and decorate the whole house for your party.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mommy. My birthday isn’t for a long time after Christmas. It would be foolish to decorate so early!”

  “Oh, really? Do you know why we have Christmas?”

  “Gee, Mommy, you really are being silly. Of course I know why we have Christmas. It’s Jesus’s birthday.”

  “Exactly, my dear,” I replied. “And if you think it is silly to start decorating for your birthday three weeks early, don’t you think it is equally foolish to start decorating for Jesus’s birthday too soon?”

  She nodded her head in agreement and gave my hand a little squeeze. It was our silent understanding that we both knew and understood the true meaning of Christmas.

  My thoughts quickly came back to the present as my cow
orker approached me. “Taking a little break, are you?

  Have you got all your shopping done?” she asked.

  “As much as I am going to do,” I told her. “I’m not here to shop. I just have a deposit to make.”

  “Oh, well,” she said, “I have no money left to put in the bank. In fact, I just had to take more out to pay for these few gifts I had forgotten about.” She laid down several large packages that weighed heavily in her arms.

  “I wish my crowd would give up this gift-giving thing.

  You can’t buy anything for ten dollars now. And what do you get for a teenage boy anyway? My nerves are gone. I can’t wait to get back to work to get my check—God knows I’m gonna need it.”

  I sat in silence as she bent to retrieve her parcels, but as she turned to leave, I said, “Maybe we can get together over the holidays. Give me a call, and I’ll prepare a nice meal for us all.”

  “That would be perfect,” she shouted as she waved her one free hand and made her way into the nearby sporting goods store.

  I glanced at my watch and gathered up my gloves, my purse, and my thoughts. I decided that the time had arrived. I would put it off no longer. My eyes started to fill with tears as I made my way through the center of the mall. I was here to carry on a tradition that my poor father had started so many years ago. Each time I thought of him, my heart ached a little more, especially at Christmastime.

  This year would mark the fourteenth anniversary of his death. He had been a loving and generous man who always found time to help others. Financially, he was probably the poorest man in our hometown, but we had the richest family—in love, in giving, in caring, and in understanding the needs of those who were less fortunate than ourselves.