A Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas

by Jack Canfield

  I forced myself to go to the hospital the next morning, where I was astonished to see Dad sitting up. Though he’d been immobile in bed for nearly two weeks, he had taken not one, but two walks that morning, the nurse told me.

  His eyes were very bright when I arrived. “Hon, I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “Your mother sent a little angel last night, who told me that’s what God wants me to do— get up and go on with my life.”

  As if to test his sincerity, circumstances prevented his discharge on the holiday, which meant I had a chance to learn more about that “little angel” when a friend called to wish me a happy Christmas.

  A treasured prayer companion, she has an admirable godmother’s relationship with her five-year-old nephew.

  She takes her duty to champion his spiritual life very seriously, and they talk together about God all the time.

  “Tristan was here Sunday,” she said. “We found a scraggly branch, stuck it in the snow, and made a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. As we decorated it, he looked at me and asked, ‘Auntie Di, are you okay?’”

  “I told him I’ve been worried about my friend because her mommy died, and her daddy’s been so sad that nobody knows what to do.”

  She described how the little boy paused for a moment, then said, “Well, of course the daddy’s sad. The mommy died!”

  His clear, child’s wisdom brought sudden tears for me as I listened.

  Then she shared his next words. “But God can make anything better, right Auntie Di? Tomorrow’s special because it’s Jesus’s birthday. I’m going to ask God to tell the Daddy that the Mummy is with Jesus, and that everything is going to be okay.”

  There was a long, teary silence on my end as she finished.

  On Christmas Eve, that little boy had offered his faith-filled, confident prayer, and that Christmas, through the power of such prayer, was a turning point for my dad. He will remember it always as the season when, warmed by the light of the world and touched by a little angel, he found the will to live.

  Phyllis Ring

  Reprinted by permission of Off the Mark and Mark Parisi. © 2007 Mark Parisi.

  Sarah’s Christmas Wish

  Sarah, my three-year-old daughter, wanted to see Santa before Christmas as this would be her first time to sit on his lap and tell him what she wanted. When my wife and I practiced with her, we would ask what she wanted Santa to bring, and she always responded, “I want a bear and presents.”

  So Sarah, her mom, and Grammy went to see Santa at the local mall. Sarah was ready. She confidently walked up to Santa when it was her turn. Mom and Grammy stayed back to take in the whole experience.

  She jumped up on Santa’s lap, and when he asked what she wanted for Christmas, she looked at him and gave her response. As soon as the words came out, Santa began to laugh uncontrollably. Sarah was bouncing up and down on his lap. Santa quickly regained his composure and again asked her what she wanted. She again told him her wish—and again he started to laugh!

  Getting a little nervous, Mom walked up to Santa and asked him what she had said.

  “I have never had a child ask for this before,” Santa replied between his chuckles. “When I asked her what she wanted me to bring her, she told me she wanted a beer!”

  William Livers

  The Wish List

  With just a few weeks left before Christmas, I was overwhelmed with keeping up with my full-time job, housework, and all the preparations for the holidays. My five-year-old daughter, Nikki, was always right under my feet, trying to act older. She always wanted to “help” with everything.

  On this particular day, she was more of a hindrance than a help. “Why don’t you go write Santa a list of what you want for Christmas,” I suggested.

  “But I want to help you,” she replied.

  Not being in the mood for a little “adult” following me, I answered, “Do as I say, Nikki. Go write a Christmas list for Santa.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled and ran up the stairs to complete her assignment.

  As I finished up the housework, I began to imagine the expensive items that would appear on her list. There would probably be a video system, a doll house, and maybe a new bike. Boy, I set myself up for that one!

  Later that night, I saw Nikki’s list on the table. There were only two words on it. “Nikki,” I yelled up the stairs, “come down here!”

  She flew down the stairs in her pajamas and looked up at me. I showed her the list and said, “Why do you have these two things on your list? You already have a dog and a cat.”

  “I know,” my little five-year-old said to me, “but they’re the only words I know how to spell.”

  Cheryl M.Kremer

  Reprinted by permission of Off the Mark and Mark Parisi. © 2007 Mark Parisi.

  Love for Tots

  Christmas, my child, is love in action.

  Every time we love, we give. It’s Christmas.

  Dale Evans Rogers

  On a late November day, my family went to see the play, A Christmas Carol. We were just loading into the car when I blurted out, “I feel bad for all those poor children who don’t have what we have for Christmas.” I was surprised by my own words. Why had that picture of little, sick Tiny Tim popped into my head?

  “You are right, Lynnea. Many people don’t have all the holiday presents and merriment that you have.” My papa obviously agreed with my statement. I thought all about what had just happened the whole ride. When my mama and papa told me they were cutting down on the presents, why did I feel bad for myself when others didn’t get anything?

  After I’d thought about the situation for about a week, I was very happy for the weekend to come. I sped down the stairs into the basement. I dug around in an old hamper and pulled out a scruffy brown teddy bear with a plaid bow around its neck. I smiled wide, admiring the toy. If I can make a difference this Christmas, this is it! I thought, holding the fluffy teddy bear in my arms. I skipped upstairs and explained my planned good deed to my mom. I saw a twinkle in her eyes.

  The next week, my mom took me to the local mall. I rode the escalator with glee and excitement. I couldn’t wait! When we arrived at a small table draped in a white cloth, a man dressed in a military uniform greeted us. He was a bit stiff, but kind. He pointed to a golden box labeled “Toys for Tots” in big red letters. I placed my teddy bear in the small pile of toys. I knew I was doing something right, and my heart was filled with warmth. I smiled at the man, grasped my mom’s hand, and walked away. I thought about a child suffering from poverty. Her eyes would glitter as she looked at the teddy bear—the glittering eyes of sheer joy, happiness, and thankfulness.

  Lynnea Bolin

  Tree of Thanks

  Gifts of time and love are surely the

  basic ingredients of Christmas.

  Peg Bracker

  “How can we honor your teachers this year?” I asked my two young daughters one cold December morning. As a way to teach them to show appreciation, I always involved my kids in making and giving a Christmas gift to their teachers.

  “Let’s bake some cookies,” my older daughter, Lynsey, piped up.

  “Yeah, we can decorate them in pretty colors,” chimed in little Laura.

  “That’s a nice idea, girls,” I replied. “What about something different? Maybe something very unusual.”

  “I like my teacher,” Laura declared with a big grin revealing her lost front tooth.

  “Good,” I affirmed with a pat on her back.

  “Can we make my teacher a handkerchief?” Lynsey asked.

  “Well, that’d be special,” I said, “but I don’t know how to sew or embroider. I’m a better cook than a seamstress.”

  “What can we bake, Mom?” Laura asked.

  “Hmm, what do you like to eat?” I asked.

  “Those crunchy, sticky bars!” they yelled together.

  “Oh, when I mix the marshmallows and rice cereal?”

  “Yeah, they’re so good!”

  Instead
of making the standard bars, I suddenly thought, we could shape the mixture into a cone so it looks like a tree. Then, we could decorate with gumdrops, string licorice, and red and green sugar. “Hey, girls, what if you help me melt the butter and marshmallows?”

  “Yeah! That’d be neat, Mom,” Lynsey agreed. She and her sister began dancing around the room like drops of water in a hot skillet.

  Through the clang of metal cookwear, we dragged out a round, deep pan. Then Lynsey retrieved the butter, marshmallows, and vanilla, while Laura found the green food coloring, multicolored sprinkles, and cereal. Instead of the traditional rice cereal, I wanted to use something round like Cap’n Crunch or Cheerios.

  Lynsey, Laura, and I melted the butter and gooey marshmallows. Each took turns stirring, watching it gradually come to a soft boil. I mixed in green coloring and Cheerios, then we buttered our hands to shape the warm combination into a cone. The warmth in the kitchen and on our hands was soothing, and I easily forgot the chaos in my kitchen. “Let’s press these into the tree to look like garland,” I said, handing them red licorice strings. I could see a tremendous surge of self-esteem and new energy in my kids.We laughed together as we made a sweet treat for each teacher.

  “I want to shake on colored sugar,” Laura insisted, squeezing my arm with anticipation. “I can’t wait to give mine to Mrs. Smith.” Then she turned and gave me an impulsive hug, leaving buttery prints on my sleeve.

  Our bejeweled cone looked just like an ornate Christmas tree!

  Early Monday morning, we carefully placed each finished product on wax paper, then transferred it onto a sturdy foam plate. I drove to the school where Lynsey and Laura climbed out of the car with their treasures in hand.

  They skipped up to the front of the building and waited for me to park and join them.

  Inside, teachers and children passed us in the hallway, hungrily eyeing our detailed project. “Wow, that looks yummy,” one teacher remarked.

  “Yeah, we’re giving this to Mrs. Smith,” Laura proudly announced.

  “I’ve got one for my teacher, too,” Lynsey added.

  I accompanied Laura into her classroom to “ahhs” from the children. “Look,” she yelled at her teacher. “Here’s a gift for you because I like you.”

  “Oh my, Laura,” the teacher responded, bending down to Laura’s level and reaching out to take the plate. “What a nice surprise!”

  “I made it myself, just for you!”

  “Well, you can be proud.”

  “I am!”

  “You know,” said Laura’s teacher, “cooking helps you understand more about math because you have to measure and know your fractions. Plus you get to spend special time with your mom and sister.”

  I thanked the teacher for her faithful commitment to my daughter and left the room to join Lynsey, who was anxiously pacing in the hallway. She and I walked into her class with a déjà vu of admiration. Lynsey’s tree looked like artwork. The edible glitter glistened like a frost-covered lawn.

  She had also cut out a paper star and carefully printed her teacher’s name in the middle. Then she had taped the paper star to a toothpick and inserted it on top of the tree.

  “Lynsey, you created a unique masterpiece,” her teacher said.

  “Thank you,” Lynsey, replied looking a little self-conscious.

  Then she turned over her appreciation gift to the teacher.

  Every year, we’ve tried to design unique and useful presents for the teachers who do so much for my kids throughout the year. Often, we work on a craft project, but cooking with my kids always wins hands down.

  Brenda Nixon

  3

  THE SANTA

  FILES

  . . . The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

  In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. . . .

  Clement C. Moore, The Night Before Christmas

  Reprinted by permission of Off the Mark and Mark Parisi. © 2007 Mark Parisi.

  Memories of a Christmas Doll

  The children were nestled all

  snug in their beds, while visions of sugar

  plums danced in their heads. . . .

  Clement C. Moore,

  The Night Before Christmas

  The train rounded the bend a quarter-mile from the station with its headlight bright, even in the afternoon sunshine. I held onto my mother’s hand as I pointed with my left, on tiptoes in excitement and anticipation, knowing my grandmother was arriving from Manhattan, Kansas, to spend Christmas with us in St. Louis. I missed school that afternoon to meet the train, my first-grade skills sufficient to allow the privilege of going to an outlying station near Forest Park to welcome her. Grandma came every December for several weeks until her death after Christmas in 1958. Each visit in the later years was memorable. We spent the evenings playing games, especially Rummy Royale around the kitchen table.

  The Christmas I was six in 1954, however, holds a different memory, for it was the year I learned the truth about Santa Claus. Before Grandma came, we had decorated the balsam fir Dad had placed in the corner of the living room, the large, colored bulbs of that era reflecting in the tinsel that dangled precariously on the branches. It was especially beautiful through young, squinting eyes that blurred the tree into a shimmering mass.

  Mysterious boxes were appearing daily beneath the tree, and the countdown was on until the morning when all would be revealed. I had been asked what I wanted Santa to bring me that year, and a “bride doll” was always my quick response. I had great confidence that despite not having a fireplace and chimney, St. Nick would find a way to enter our home with the desired gift.

  My older brother and I shared a room across the hall from our parents in the small, two-bedroom house on the corner of Big Bend Boulevard and Exeter in Shrewsbury, Missouri. Across the shaded side street began the lovely community of Webster Groves. We moved into a large, three-story house in Webster before I entered the second grade, outgrowing our Big Bend house when my younger brother, Peter, outgrew his crib. Many dear childhood memories remain of that suburban home where my parents and their oldest son and new daughter came to live after leaving Wichita, Kansas, three months after I was born. Christmas 1954 is one of those memories.

  December 24 finally arrived that year, and our father continued the tradition of taking his children to downtown St. Louis to see the beautiful and enchanting department-store windows decorated for the holidays. Before malls started crawling across the landscape of suburbia, shoppers made their way to nearby cities to find the home furnishings and clothes needed for casual and formal living. This became one of the highlights of every year, an anticipated joy that allowed Mother the peace and quiet to finish baking and preparing for Christmas.

  I saw many Santas that day: on street corners ringing bells for charity, near the toy sections in each department store we visited, outside the car window as we drove past even more displays. I was puzzled by all the Santas and determined that night I’d ask my older brother why there were so many. Since he knew everything anyway, he would undoubtedly have an answer.

  Our beds on opposite walls, Kenny and I often talked at night before falling asleep, his extra six years of experience a helpful perspective on life. In the darkened room, lit only by the street lights outside our front-room window, I asked him about Santa Claus. He answered me with typical, twelve-year-old directness, “There’s only one Santa that matters; the others are helpers dressed up to look like him. Our parents even help him.”

  Well, that made some sense. He challenged me to sneak downstairs to see what everyone was doing, perhaps to prove his point. And so I did.

  The stairs ended at a landing, with several more steps into either the kitchen or the living room. I quietly made my way until I stopped at the last step before reaching the divide where I knew I’d be visible.

  The kitchen light was on, a radio was softly playing Christmas carols, and my mother and grandmother were busy with a project that caught my attention. Absorb
ed as they were, they never saw me peek into the room. Mom was attentively ironing an ivory satin gown, a bridal gown to fit a doll, while Grandma was working on a veil. A lovely doll with blonde, gently curled hair that framed her porcelain face lay nearby on the table. My young heart knew at once this was to be the “bride doll” I requested.

  Before creeping back upstairs, I glanced into the living room at the tree, bright with color, and festooned with an abundance of presents that had materialized since I’d kissed everyone good night and gone to bed.

  I quickly got under the covers and told my brother what I’d seen. Apparently, our parents did help Santa provide the bounty of Christmas morning, but I decided to watch for his coming anyway, just to see what he’d bring.

  I dozed off and on in excitement, waking throughout the night to peer out the window at the stars, hoping to see Santa Claus streak across the sky. I never saw him, nor did I hear the sleigh bells jingle his arrival, but sleep overcame my desire to stay awake, and so I missed him.

  We woke early on Christmas morning and eventually gathered together around the tree, under which more gifts had been added to indicate Santa had indeed come. When I first entered the living room, however, I only had eyes for the beautiful doll adorned in wedding finery, sitting serenely in a chair, a queen on a throne. She was the same one from the kitchen table, only transformed by her gown and veil.

  I was told the doll had been given to my mother when she was a young girl in the years following her birth in 1910. Instructed to handle her carefully, I knew that meant I was to love her with gentle hands.

  A doll was under the tree every Christmas after that, until in time I had acquired an enviable collection: a red-haired Ginny doll, a brunette Jill doll, Tiny Tears, and assorted dolls with wardrobes made by my mother.

  December 1954 gave me an enlightened understanding of Santa Claus. The true generosity of the real St. Nicholas was aided by my grandmother, my parents, and the individuals who gave themselves to help children and others experience a blessed Christmas. His legendary spirit was alive and active in my parents throughout their lifetime, blessing our family with memories fine and dear. They made wonderful Santa’s helpers!